Page 25 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

I leave the crutches propped against the wall. They would announce every movement, especially if I knock them into objects by accident. Stealth matters more than stability tonight.

I watch the clock on the nightstand, waiting for the right moment when Thompson will have his attention turned away. My hand hovers over my bedroom doorknob.

Three… two… one…

I twist the handle and step out. My first steps send white-hot agony through my healing tissue. As I close the door silently and then scurry around a corner, my muscles tremble with the effort of supporting weight they’re not ready to bear. I bite down hard on my tongue, channeling pain into fuel.

I hear Thompson’s boots scuff across the tile. There’s a pause, then they continue on in the opposite direction.

I exhale. I’m in the clear, but it won’t last long. Especially if someone watching my bedroom cameras notices my disappearance.

The hallway stretches before me. Security cameras sweep predetermined arcs—left to right, pause, return.

I’ve observed them meticulously and know their rhythm.

There are narrow blind spots for each one and ways I can avoid them if I time it correctly.

My bare feet whisper against marble as I move between shadows, each step calculated to avoid the cameras’ unblinking eyes.

Progress comes in inches. My wound throbs with every movement, threatening to buckle legs already weak from disuse.

Sweat beads along my spine despite the estate’s climate control.

By the time I reach the junction leading to Aurelia’s wing, my shirt clings to my skin and my breathing comes in carefully controlled gasps.

Almost there. Almost to my love. Twenty more feet and?—

“Going somewhere, brother?”

Ice floods my veins. I don’t need to turn to recognize the voice that now promises only torment. Julian emerges from the darkness I should’ve checked, moving with the fluid grace of a seasoned fighter.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, not insulting either of us with elaborate lies. My hand drifts to my side, pressing against the wound that’s throbbing painfully. “Thought I’d walk?—”

“Past her room?” I can hear the sneer in his voice, though he’s still covered by the night. “Did you forget about the cameras? Or did you think I wouldn’t notice my own brother skulking through my house like a thief?”

I force my spine straight despite muscles screaming in protest. Pain is just information; I can process it later. I’m more disappointed at my own miscalculations in avoiding discovery. “She’s carrying what might be my child. Don’t you think?—”

The world blurs as Julian moves, faster than my compromised reflexes can track. His hands slam into my chest, driving me back against an unforgiving wall. The impact steals breath and thought. A gasp tears free before I can swallow it.

“Want to start bleeding again?” Julian’s conversational tone makes the threat infinitely worse. “Because I can arrange that. One good hit and I can break your nose. Your legs. So many things.”

“Julian—” I try to straighten, to meet him with some dignity, but his palm finds my bullet wound.

Pressure. Just enough to make his point without causing permanent damage.

The message is clear: he holds my life in his hands, and mercy is a luxury he no longer offers.

“You’ve been trying to reach her since the moment she arrived.” His voice maintains that terrifying calm. “Plotting your next move, your next betrayal. But I won’t have any of that in this house.”

I force myself to meet his gaze despite the pain turning my vision gray at the edges. “There was never?—”

His hand shifts from threatening to controlling, fingers tangling in my shirt as he yanks me forward. My weakened body is helpless against his superior strength. He drags me down hallways I’d so carefully navigated, past guards whose eyes widen with shock but who make no move to intervene.

My room appears too quickly. Julian opens the door and throws me on the bed with enough force to drive the remaining air from my lungs. I curl instinctively around my wound, tasting bile.

He moves swiftly. First he yanks on my legs. The chains rattle as he secures them on my ankles, each lock clicking with finality. Then he pulls my arms above my head and secures those. I can only move a few inches on either side of the bed.

“Get some rest.” He steps back to admire his handiwork, and I’ve never seen him look more like our father. “If you need to piss, you can just piss yourself. If you beg me, I might release you in the morning. But only if you beg.”

He turns to leave.

Desperation gives me the strength to speak. “There was never any plotting!” I strain against the chains, shaking the bed. “The only lies came from our mother! I love you. I’ve only ever wanted to protect you.”

He freezes and turns back to me slowly. For one heartbeat, I see my brother. Not the monster Lady Harrow created, but the boy who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms.

“She told you Aurelia was dead.” I press into his moment of vulnerability, pouring every ounce of conviction into words that might be my last chance.

“But Aurelia is here, alive, pregnant. What else has Mother lied to you about?” I swallow past the copper taste of desperation.

“ Think , brother. Stop letting her manipulate you. Please. You’re my little brother, and I’ve always loved you.

I want us to be a family again—just me and you. That’s the truth.”

His expression shifts like tectonic plates grinding together. Doubt wars with conditioning, love battles suspicion. For one perfect moment, I think I’ve reached him.

Then the walls slam back into place .

“Guards!” His voice echoes with fresh fury. Two men materialize in the doorway. One of them is Thompson. Julian’s fist connects with Thompson’s jaw before anyone can react. The guard staggers back, blood streaming from his nose. “Fucking do your job and make sure he doesn’t escape again. Idiots!”

He storms out, leaving me chained and alone in the dark.