Page 156 of The Call of Crimson
“Says the one who is best friends with Breyla. She is the bluntest female I’ve ever met.” Cillian snorts. “I find it quite refreshing.”
“Fair point.” Elijah shrugs.
“Why are you here, Cillian?” I ask, steering the conversation back to what matters.
“I do love it when you say my name, darling.”
A low sound closely resembling a growl escapes Elijah before he catches himself and clears his throat.
Cillian smirks, clearly pleased with himself, before lifting two fingers to the corner of his mouth and letting out a high-pitched whistle.
Another one of his mercenaries enters the room, dragging a bound form. Dark material covers their face, but the stature tells me they’re male.
Elijah’s eyebrows shoot up. “Who is this?”
“I don’t know his name.” Cillian rips the covering from the male’s head. “The fucker wouldn’t divulge it.”
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
Eyes the color of steel stare into mine. Mottled purple skin and swelling distort the face in places, but the eyes are unmistakable because they’remine.
Dark brown hair frames the misshapen face of my father.
He can’t speak from the gag, but I see the disgust and contempt clear in his face as he eyes me up and down.
A breath catches in my throat at the memory of every time I had seen that look before. It was frequently followed by the burn of his Gift frying every nerve ending in my body.
Elijah and Cillian speak, but their voices dissolve into static. I hear nothing but my own breath and the rush of blood in my ears.
Two strides.
That’s all it takes to cross the space and wrap my fingers around his throat.
I squeeze, feeling the way he swallows against my palm, fear filling his eyes.
“Layne is dead because of you,” I cry.
His brows furrow, an emotion I’m not accustomed to seeing on his face—confusion.
Before I can second-guess myself, I unleash my Gift. Black light flickers to life around my hand, a dull glow as I press against his windpipe.
He has no time to fight. No time to resist. His life drains beneath my fingers as his skin pales and cracks, shriveling until he’s nothing but a husk. His eyes go glassy, and I release him, the breath rattling in my chest more relief than remorse.
“Ophelia,” Elijah says softly, stepping forward. His hand wraps around mine, drawing me toward him.
Something like concern flashes in his eyes as he looks from me to the dead male at my feet.
“Yes, Elijah?” I ask after a long moment, my voice soft and empty.
“What are you doing?”
I struggle to understand why he would question me removing the male responsible for so much pain and death in this court. “Dealing with a problem.”
“We don’t even know his name, Ophelia.” His tone is hesitant, cautious. “Much less why Cillian brought him here.”
“Who cares what his name was?” Cillian chimes in, tone reverent, as if I were a goddess blessing her chosen or performing a miracle. “That was brilliant.”
I shake my head, confused by them both. “Of course, we know his name. That is, or was, my father, Lord Seamus.”
