Page 5 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

DANTE

C onsciousness 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’s enough 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 as though 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.”

A ghost of something—a memory, perhaps—flickers across his features.

“You always won,” I add, meaning more than just childhood games.

His shoulders relax and I glimpse the boy who used to trust me to chase away the monsters under his bed. The brother who looked to me for guidance when our world felt too dark and complicated to navigate alone.

But I only get a glimpse before he rebuilds his walls, brick by brick, until only the hollow-eyed stranger remains.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice threatening to wound me. “Don’t pretend any of this matters now.”

There’s pain underneath the anger. It’s not indifference that drives him—it’s a hurt so deep it’s carved permanent channels through his soul.

“I’m proud of the man you’ve become,” I tell him, and I mean every word. “Even now. Especially now.”

His laugh is bitter. “Proud? Of what, exactly? Of how I was forced to take control? Of how I’ve finally learned to be what this family requires? Everything I hate? ”

“Proud of your strength. Your determination. The way you’ve refused to let anyone break you.”

“Don’t.” The word comes out strangled this time. “Stop pretending you care after what you and that bitch did to me.”

The anguish in his voice creates a fissure in my chest. This is the wound I’ve been looking for—the source of his transformation. Not just our father’s legacy or Lady Harrow’s manipulation, but something more personal. Something I’ve done.

He thinks I abandoned him. I want to explain everything, to bring up how it was really Lady Harrow who abandoned us—who shot me—and that Aurelia was innocent in all of it.

Yet, I don’t think Julian is ready to hear the truth. He needs more time.

Instead, I focus on what he might be willing to hear. I pour every ounce of sincerity I possess into my words. “I’ve always cared. Everything I did was to protect you.”

He scoffs, but there’s no real conviction behind it.

“I know I failed,” I continue. “I should have done more to shield you from Lucian. From Lady Harrow. I should have seen what was happening and?—”

“Stop.” Julian’s composure finally cracks, his voice rising. “Just stop with your fucking lies!” His hands ball into fists at his sides. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what you and Aurelia were really doing?”

“Julian, whatever you think happened?—”

“I know what happened!” He spins to face me fully, and the pain in his eyes is devastating—it cracks my heart. “You two planned it all. The fake death, making me believe she killed you so I’d take power and then what—fail spectacularly while you two laughed at how easily you’d played me?”

My heart shatters. He truly believes this. The paranoia, the isolation, the manipulation—his heavy burden and Lady Harrow have convinced him that the two people who love him most are his greatest enemies.

“You’ve been planning our mother’s downfall behind my back,” he continues, his voice gaining momentum like a gathering storm. “Plotting against the woman who gave us life, who’s done nothing but try to protect this family from people like your precious Aurelia!”

The sound of heels clicking against stone interrupts Julian’s tirade. We both turn toward the terrace entrance as Lady Harrow emerges from the shadows of the house. She’s dressed in cream silk, not a hair out of place, looking every inch the grieving mother reunited with her sons.

“There you are,” she says, her voice holding a false warmth. “My boys.”

I can hear the emptiness so clearly in her voice, I can see how she’s acting. Why is Julian so blind to it? Truly, she’s not the greatest actress. How can he not know?

Julian’s posture straightens as she approaches, but I see the subtle tension that creeps into his shoulders. Even now, even after everything, some part of him remains wary of her presence.

Good. All is not lost.

She reaches us and immediately moves to embrace me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders despite the awkward angle of the hospital bed. Her touch sends revulsion crawling up my spine. I try to inch away, but the chains limit my movement, trapping me in her theatrical display of maternal affection.

“You’re looking well, Adrian,” she says against my ear, her breath warm and nauseating. When she pulls back, her smile is perfectly crafted—the picture of a relieved mother. “I’m so sorry about the woman you tried to run off with. Such a mess she made in the end. Blood everywhere.”

I don’t try to mask my emotion and a gasp parts my lips. Then my lungs constrict, cutting off my breath as her words dig into me.

No. No, she can’t mean?—

“What did you do?” The question tears from my throat as I strain against the shackles. Metal bites into my wrists as I pull forward, desperate to reach her, to shake the truth from her lying mouth. “What did you do ?”

Lady Harrow’s expression doesn’t change, maintaining that serene mask of maternal concern. “What Julian asked me to do, of course.” She turns to look at my brother with pride glowing in her eyes. “She won’t be bothering our family anymore.”

It feels like the bed is tipping. Everything—the garden, the afternoon light, the scent of roses—becomes meaningless background noise. There’s only the roaring in my ears and the desperate need to know this is a lie.

After everything, Aurelia can’t be?—

“It’s done,” she adds, reaching up to touch Julian’s cheek tenderly. “Just as you wanted.”

My composure doesn’t crack—it detonates.

Years of control, of measured responses and strategic thinking, obliterated in an instant.

I lunge forward with everything I have, ignoring the fire that tears through my wound, ignoring the chains that bite deeper into my flesh with each desperate movement.

I thrash against the bed, trying to will it to move closer to this demon who birthed me.

“You’re lying!” The words rip from the most primal part of me. “Tell me she’s lying, Julian!”

I reach for her throat even though she’s several feet away. I simply need to feel her pulse flutter beneath my fingers, need to squeeze until she takes back those words. But the chains don’t break, leaving me straining while she watches with detached interest.

Julian stands frozen, his face now marble. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it. His silence is more devastating than any confession could be.

“Julian, please.” My voice breaks on his name. “Tell me you didn’t?—”

Lady Harrow laughs, the sound light and musical, as though we’re discussing the weather rather than murder. “We’re finally a family again,” she says, her hand still resting on Julian’s cheek. “Just the three of us, as it should be.”

To my horror, Julian doesn’t pull away from her touch. He stands there like a statue, accepting her caress while I fall apart in front of them both.

“Well,” she says through a sigh. “I have some calls to make about tomorrow’s cleanup. You two should continue catching up.” She presses a kiss to Julian’s forehead—a blessing that makes my stomach churn—and glides back toward the house.

The silence she leaves behind is so suffocating it threatens to kill me.

I collapse against the bed, the fight draining out of me as the chains finally stop cutting into my wrists.

Blood seeps through the bandages on my abdomen where my frantic movements have reopened the wound, but I couldn’t care less about the pain.

Aurelia. My beautiful, fierce Aurelia.

Gone?

She can’t be dead. I would feel it, wouldn’t I? Some part of my soul would know if hers had been extinguished. But doubt creeps in like poison, tainting any rational thought. The silence from Julian, the satisfaction in Lady Harrow’s eyes, the plain way she described blood?—

No. I refuse to believe it. Not until I see proof. Not until I’m certain.

“Why?” The question comes out as simmering rage. “Why let her do this to you? This isn’t who you are.”

Julian finally moves, turning those hollow eyes toward me. “You don’t know who I am anymore.” His voice carries no emotion, no inflection—just empty observation. “Maybe you never did.”

Without another word, he moves to the foot of my bed and begins wheeling me back toward the house. The rose garden blurs past as we leave the terrace, the beauty of it now tainted.

As we move through the familiar hallways again, I make a silent vow that cuts through the haze of grief and despair.

Even if Aurelia is truly gone—and I refuse to accept that possibility—I won’t lose Julian too.

Lady Harrow has twisted him into something unrecognizable, but the brother I love is still there, somewhere.

I’ve failed him too many times already. I won’t fail again.

Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I will save Julian from Lady Harrow’s manipulation. I will save him from himself.