Page 4 of Goldrage
But it’s not my impending death that occupies my thoughts. It’s Aurelia. I keep seeing the crimson line Julian carved across her throat and the terror in her eyes when the bullet struck her side. I see Lady Harrow’s facetransformed with anticipation as Julian carried me away, leaving Aurelia broken and bleeding.
Take care of her first,I wanted to scream at my brother.Save her, not me, you idiot!
But he didn’t. He chose me. He left her there.
And Lorenzo, my only friend. The only person who didn’t look at me and see Lucian Harrow’s heir. He’s dead because I involved him in this. It’s yet another name on the list of people I’ve failed to protect.
I turn my head slightly in the backseat, studying my brother’s profile. Julian stares out the window, his features carved from stone, eyes reflecting nothing. His knuckles are bruised and bloody and he’s gripping his own knee tightly. His fists are clenched around the fabric of his pants, the only indication that he feels anything at all. I search for the boy who used to laugh and find some joy in this bleak world, who once put his small hand in mine and trusted me to guide him through the darkness of our family legacy.
That boy is dead. This hollow-eyed stranger wears my brother’s face like an ill-fitting mask.
“Julian,” I say, the word escaping as little more than a breath. “Where are we… Where are we going? What did… Aurelia?”
No response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment that I’ve spoken. It’s as though I’m already a ghost to him.
A memory surfaces through the pain: Julian at seven, small and trembling, hidden among my hanging clothes after witnessing what Lucian did to our mother that night. I found him there, knees pulled to his chest, tryingto disappear. I held him while he cried silently—he’d already learned that making noise only invited more violence. I whispered promises into his hair, swearing I’d always protect him, that I’d never let him become like our father.
I failed you. I should have done more. I should have seen what was happening to you and stopped it.
I try to reach out and take his hand, but there’s no strength in my body.
The Seattle skyline recedes in the window as we take the highway north. I recognize the route—the winding road that leads to our family’s secondary estate, hidden behind acres of old-growth forest. It’s a property my father used for “special business,” all those transactions too unsavory even for the penthouse’s soundproofed rooms. It’s a special place where screams could echo without neighbors to hear them.
I know exactly where we’re going. The only problem is that no one else does. Not even Valentine knows about this private estate.
I feel sick just picturing the property because it holds nothing but bad memories. It’s where my father first forced me to watch as he broke a man’s fingers one by one for failing to deliver a shipment. Where he later made me break another man’s arms myself while he watched, evaluating my technique. Where he taught me that power wasn’t about shouting but about knowing precisely where to apply pressure until something—or someone—shattered.
It was in that house that I became what my father wanted: the perfect heir, cold and calculated. It was thereI learned to lock away pieces of myself so deeply that sometimes I forgot they existed at all.
I attempt to push myself upright, ignoring the protest of torn muscle and damaged tissue. Blood slicks my palms as I brace myself against the seat.
“Julian,” I try again, each syllable costing me the only slivers of energy I have left. “What did you do to her?”
For a moment, I think he’ll continue ignoring me. Then he turns, his head swiveling like a hawk to lock onto me. His gaze finally meets mine. Where I expect to find rage, hatred, even satisfaction, I find nothing. His eyes are mirrors reflecting a void, just windows to a hollowed-out soul.
The sight pierces my heart.
What have I let happen to him?
“Does it matter?” he asks. There’s no inflection, no emotion, only an echoing quality that rattles me to the bone.
My analytical mind kicks in, overriding the physical agony. If Aurelia is with Lady Harrow, she has hours at most. Lady Harrow has been waiting years for this opportunity. I need to calculate the time until I can move effectively, identify potential allies, create a diversion?—
“Don’t bother planning, brother.” Julian’s voice startles me with its perception. “You’re exactly where I want you. And she’s exactly where Lady Harrow wants her. There’s no escape.”
“This isn’t you. This is what he made you. What she made you.” I lean forward despite the searing pain radiating through my abdomen. “I know you love her. I know there’s still good in you.”
Julian’s eyes search my expression, showing some life and some bit of humanity before the emptiness reclaims him. “After all these years, you don’t know me at all. You never did. Ten years of playing the perfect fucking son with your pretend girlfriend, and you never saw what was happening tome.”
I struggle to exhale. His accusation is worse than the bullet that bounced around my insides earlier. The guilt is suffocating. He’s correct. I spent years teaching Julian to be controlled, to hide his emotions, to survive our father, and it only pushed him closer to darkness. Had my own methods of enduring our father’s cruelty become the blueprint for my brother’s undoing?
In trying to protect him, did I help destroy him?
The SUV slows as we approach the estate gates. Even through blood loss and pain, even with Aurelia’s life hanging by a thread, I can’t stop the automatic assessment of our surroundings. There are four guards visible at the gatehouse. Two surveillance cameras with blind spots are at the northeast corner. The motion sensors were recently installed along the perimeter wall. I catalog it all, creating an inventory of information that might mean survival later.
These are old habits encoded in my blood. Patterns I can’t break even when breaking.
The gates swing open, revealing the expansive, lush estate beyond. It’s objectively beautiful, like a Garden of Eden. However, when one looks closely, there’s no peace here, only acres of snakes. The main house looms against the darkening sky, and even in its grandeur, the windows are like dead eyes watching our approach. No doubt myfather’s hunting trophies will still line the walls inside—evidence of his belief that all living things eventually submit to superior power.
