Page 9 of Goldrage
CHAPTER FOUR
DANTE
Consciousness returns like a dark storm cloud rolling in—slow, inevitable, carrying the threat of pain and memories with it. My eyelids feel weighted with lead, reluctant to open and confront whatever reality awaits. The first sensation that registers isn’t sight but sound: the steady beep of medical equipment, rhythmic and reassuring in its mechanical certainty.
Then comes the awareness of restraint.
My wrists are bound by heavy shackles that allow perhaps six inches of movement in any direction. The metal is cold against my skin, professionally installed rather than hastily applied. Someone has taken care to ensure I remain precisely where they want me while still maintaining circulation. The chains connect to a hospital-style bed that’s been positioned in what appears to be a converted bedroom.
I test the bonds, feeling their unyielding grip. There’senough slack to prevent muscle atrophy but nowhere near enough to allow any kind of escape. Every detail has been calculated, measured, controlled.
It’s almost as if I had done this myself.
My abdomen throbs with a deep, persistent ache. Lifting my head slightly, I can see my wound has been bandaged professionally. It seems someone has treated me and stitched me up so I’ll live another day. And it’s expertly done. All the equipment around me is top-tier. No expense spared for the prodigal son.
I hate the irony. I’m a prisoner receiving better medical care than most free people can afford.
Footsteps in the hallway draw my attention. The gait is familiar, purposeful, and my chest tightens with recognition. The door opens slowly and Julian enters.
He’s changed clothes since the drive—now wearing dark slacks and a pressed white shirt that makes his hollow eyes appear even more colorless. There’s no emotion in his expression as he approaches the bed, pulling a small penlight from his pocket. He moves with detachment, checking my pupils for signs of a concussion, then he glances at the monitors showing my vitals. Finally, he checks my restraints to make sure they’re comfortable for me.
His touch is gentle. It reminds me of the boy who used to tend to my scrapes and cuts after particularly brutal training sessions with our father.
“Brother,” I say. “How long have I been unconscious?”
He doesn’t respond, continuing his examination asthough I haven’t spoken. He checks the bandaging around my wound as if he’s my doctor; however, I know he must’ve had a real doctor in here to perform the surgery. Julian doesn’t have those skills, yet he seems to enjoy acting like he’s the one who saved my life.
“Where’s Aurelia?” I try again.
This time he pauses, but only for a heartbeat. Then he’s moving again, making notes on a tablet I can’t see. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken accusations and buried grief.
I watch him work, searching for any cracks in his armor. The boy I raised, the brother I protected—he’s still in there somewhere. He has to be.
Julian finishes his “examination” and moves to the foot of the bed. Without speaking, he begins releasing the bed’s wheel locks. The sudden movement makes my head spin momentarily as he maneuvers the bed toward the door.
“Where are we going?”
Again, no response. He simply guides the bed through the doorway and into the familiar halls of our family’s secondary estate. The walls here hold too many memories—oil paintings that watched our childhood unfold, Persian rugs that muffled the sounds of our father’s rage, ornate hand carved doorways we once ran through as children playing games that now seem impossibly innocent.
We pass the library where Julian used to hide when thunderstorms frightened him. The massive kitchen where our mother would sneak us cookies before dinner,back when she still smiled. The sitting room where the walls are lined with animal trophies, where our father would hold court, dispensing judgment and punishment.
Julian navigates these halls with the confidence of someone who knows every floorboard, every shadow. He’s been here recently, I realize. This isn’t a spontaneous decision but a carefully planned relocation.
We emerge onto the garden terrace, and despite everything, my breath catches. The rose garden spreads before us in full bloom—dozens of varieties our mother once tended obsessively. The afternoon sun filters through overhead trellises, casting dappled shadows across the stone pathways. And the air carries the heavy perfume of flowers and the distant sound of fountain water.
Julian positions my bed to face the garden, adjusting the angle so I have a clear view of it all. When he’s satisfied, he steps back, and for the first time since entering my room, he meets my eyes.
“Better?” he asks, and there’s something in his tone I can’t quite identify.
I study his face, looking for the motivation behind this kindness. “Much better. Thank you.”
He nods once, then moves to lean against the terrace railing. He gazes into the distance, lost in thought. The silence between us shifts, becoming less oppressive and more contemplative. I watch him survey the garden, and something in his calm posture reminds me of all the afternoons we spent here as children.
“Do you remember,” I begin carefully, “how we used to play hide and seek among these roses?”
His shoulders tense, lifting toward his ears, but he doesn’t respond.
“You were impossible to find,” I continue, keeping my voice soft. “I’d search for hours while you watched from your hiding spot, probably laughing at how thoroughly you’d outsmarted your older brother. You were so good at hiding.”
