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One for taking my father’s life.

Another for attempting to end Braxton’s father.

And a third for each life he’s claimed over the years.

“You said I can never go back.”

Killian nods, his voice a gurgling whisper, “Trust me, it’s true.”

“Thing is, Killian,” I say, determination hardening my tone, “I think I’m okay with that.”

Overcome by a sudden surge of rage I hadn’t anticipated, I drive my blade toward him, seconds away from striking once more, when a sudden cry slices through the tension.

“Dad!”

The voice is undeniably that of a child.

But how can that be? Children are never present at these parties.

Whirling around, I can’t help but gasp at the sight.

There, a young boy with dark wavy hair and striking ocean-blue eyes is desperately trying to reach the man now sprawled on the ground, barely clinging to life.

Though he’s so much younger than the version I know, my heart recognizes him in an instant.

A second later, my mind catches up.

Braxton!

My gaze darts from him to the person tightly grasping his arm.

This cannot be happening.

“Drop the blade, Natasha,” Arthur commands.

51

Arthur looms before me, a dark figure dressed like a groom on his wedding day.

His tailcoat is perfectly tailored, crafted of the finest dove-gray wool. The white silk waistcoat beneath is richly embroidered with navy and silver threads, while his fine cotton shirt is adorned with an elaborately tied white silk cravat. His trousers are fitted, made of the softest doeskin, and tucked inside a pair of black Hessian boots, much like the ones Killian wears. But it’s his lapel that tells the real story: pinned to the peak is a single ghost orchid bloom.

“Drop the blade, Natasha,” he repeats, his obsidian gaze locked onto me.

Though his voice is commanding, imbued with authority, what he fails to understand is that the days of me taking orders from Arthur Blackstone are well over.

Besides, why would I willingly surrender whatever slim advantage I currently have?

My eyes dart toward Killian, only to find that amid all the confusion, he’s somehow managed to edge just beyond my immediate reach. Yet the distance between us is minor, one I could easily bridge should I decide to complete what I started.

An option I’ve yet to rule out.

Braxton’s father struggles to stand, wanting his son to think he’s in better shape than he is. But the steady stream of blood seeping from the cravat he’s pressed to the wound tells me he’s not long for this world if he doesn’t get help.

Meanwhile, young Braxton, a frightened boy of probably no more than five, struggles to free himself from Arthur’s grasp, in a desperate bid to get to his father.

“Drop the blade,” Arthur repeats.

“Make me,” I say, with my gaze locked on his as I tighten my grip, refusing to give up or give in.