Page 51 of The Cruel Heir
Isaiah’s phone buzzed where he stood at the edge of the drive. He answered without emotion, murmured something short, then passed the phone to his twin brother, Malachi. They spoke like soldiers; quick, clipped, efficient.
Malachi stepped forward, his voice low as he addressed me. “Wyatt just called. Said Chadwick’s still at the club. Drunk. Running his mouth about a girl he claims won’t leave him alone.”
My jaw ticked. “Does he know if he’s talking about Zara?”
“No, sir. He’s just loud. And sloppy.”
I exhaled through my nose, the weight of the fury settling behind my eyes.
“Tell Wyatt to keep him there. Make sure no one else hears his bullshit. If he sobers up and tries to leave, stop him.”
Malachi gave a single nod, already relaying the command.
I glanced back at the house, where Zara’s silhouette hovered in the front window. Fragile. Watching me.
Chadwick didn’t realize how close he was to disappearing.
The club was buzzingwith bodies, music pulsing through the air like a living thing, but my focus was singular. The second I stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. People instinctively moved out of my way, conversations dying mid-sentence as they sensed the impending storm.
Chadwick perched at the bar, a lazy smirk on his lips, oblivious to the fact that his world was about to collapse. His blazer was slung over the stool, and his drink was nearly empty, condensation dripping onto the polished counter. He was talking to some girl, blonde, unimportant, but the second he saw me, his grin faltered.
"Sterling," he greeted, trying to sound casual, but his voice wavered. "Didn’t expect to see you here."
I didn’t bother with pleasantries. "Step outside."
He chuckled, feigning bravado, but I caught the flicker of unease in his eyes. He lifted his drink to his lips, but his fingers trembled against the glass. "Man, no need for theatrics," he said, his tone forced. "If this is about business, let’s talk like men."
The moment he spoke, something inside me snapped.
I lunged before he could finish the sentence, my fingers closing around his collar, yanking him off the stool so fast the barstool crashed to the floor behind him. His drink slipped from his grasp, shattering against the polished wood. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the club, but no one moved to help him. They knew better.
I didn’t stop at one punch. The first one rocked him, the impact sending a sharp jolt through my knuckles, but it wasn’t enough. The second punch sent him reeling, his back slammingagainst the pool table. The third had his knees buckling, his body sagging against the bricks, as blood dribbled from his split lip, pooling onto the floor below.
He groaned, but I grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him upright before he could collapse completely. His eyes, unfocused and glazed with pain, darted around, searching for an escape. There was none.
"You really thought you could approach what was mine in public?" I snarled, slamming him back against the wall. "You thought I would forget? That I wouldn’t come for you?"
He whimpered, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. "Sterling-" he croaked, but I wasn’t interested in his excuses.
I drove my fist into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He folded over, coughing violently, blood splattering onto his expensive shoes. I let him fall to his hands and knees, watching as he struggled to breathe, shaking like a cornered rat.
Kneeling down beside him, I grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at me. "If I even hear a whisper that you so much asbreathein her direction," I said, my voice deathly calm, "I will destroy your entire lineage with one phone call. Your father, your uncle, your cousins, I will erase your family like they never existed."
His breath hitched, his swollen eyes widening with something beyond pain. Fear. Real, gut-wrenching fear.
"Okay," he rasped. "Okay! Just, please-"
I shoved him onto his back, standing over him like the insignificant piece of filth he was. His entire body trembled, his blood dripping to the floor.
"Frankie," I called, wiping my knuckles against my shirt. "Make sure he remembers."
Frankie’s smirk was slow, deliberate. "With pleasure."
By the time I got back to the estate, the adrenaline had worn off, but the decision in my mind remained firm. The tension coiled in my muscles refused to dissipate, the remnants of myanger still simmering beneath my skin. My knuckles ached, the sting a dull reminder of what I’d just done, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet.
The house was silent, blanketed in the deep quiet of the early morning hours. The heavy scent of polished wood, and faint traces of lavender, curled around me as I moved through the hallways like a shadow. Each footstep was deliberate, my breathing even, despite the storm raging inside me.
When I reached my room, I expected emptiness; the cold sheets, the untouched pillows. But then I saw her.
