Page 72 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Shan inclined her head to both of them, not trusting herself to speak, not as the entire foundation of her world shattered under her feet. Everything she had built felt so precariously balanced, but she could not let this stop her.

No, it was just another step on her path to the top, even if she had to leave behind everyone she loved in the process.

The LeClaire town home felt unusually quiet on her return. The lights were banked low, even for early evening, and the home had a stillness to it that made it feel pristine, unlived in and empty. A shell of what it had been, even at her father’s worst.

It was a house, not a home. It had been like this since her brother had moved out. She had been deliberately ignoring that, but after everything she had been through, coming back to this was the worst insult of all.

Her footman had taken her baggage and spirited it up to her room, as precise and polite as always, but there was a new frostiness there, a void that had grown when she wasn’t looking.

She had sworn that she would run this household on goodwill, that she wouldn’t make the same mistakes her father did.

Oh, she hadn’t become cruel like her father, but she had become distant.

Detached. None of the servants had come to her with any whispers lately, no doubt going directly to Bart, because the lady of the house was so busy with her work.

It was never supposed to be like this.

Shan stopped in front of her study, the light from within creeping through the crack between where the door met the wall. Someone was inside, working diligently. Taking over the work that she—the Sparrow—should have been doing.

Anger flushed through her, swirling like a rip tide, and Shan threw the door open, slouching against the door frame as she took in the sight before her.

Bart sat at her desk, notes and letters and scraps of parchment spread across it, sorted into piles that Shan knew from experience contained all the secrets of Dameral.

He looked so calm and confident there, his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, fountain pen in hand—master of, if not the house, then the network she had left behind.

Gathering information and pulling the strings of all the most powerful players.

Not a Sparrow but a Hawk, a bird of prey striking at the vulnerable underbelly while she watched on, useless.

“You’re back,” Bart said, reaching for a glass of amber liquid inches from his hand. “Fruitful trip?”

It wasn’t a slight—Shan knew that intellectually. It was just their way, trading information back and forth. But still, with him at the desk and her before him, it felt a little too much like an interrogation.

She swooped forward, snatching the glass out of his hand. It was her liquor, after all, taken from her liquor cabinet, in her study, while he monitored her network.

Throwing it back, Shan let the burn work through her. Another vice that felt too good, that she was indulging in perhaps a hair too much, but she slammed the glass back down on the desk with relish. Bart only frowned, a solemn look that was far too humorless on her old friend’s face.

But she had already destroyed everything else in her life, so why not this?

“It was quite fruitful,” she said, unable to hide the sneer that crept across her expression. “The King showed us why we should fear him, and Samuel, as expected, tucked his tail between his legs and went running.”

Bart’s frown deepened as he leaned back in her chair, pressing against its tall back as he crossed his leg over his knee. He flicked his gaze from hers to the hand that still clenched the glass, dark eyes going wide as he noticed what was missing.

As all his irritation vanished, replaced by an open, honest sympathy that was worse than any anger he could have summoned.

She was not a thing to be pitied.

“Shan—”

“No,” she snarled, flinging the glass against the wall, where it hit the mantle over the fireplace, shattering into pieces as it fell to the floor, the witch light refracting through the shards as red ribbons danced through the room.

A sick memory tore through her—her father hitting the same mantle, his bones snapping under the weight of her magic. The squelch of her knife digging into his neck, cutting to the bone as he bled out before her.

Blood and steel, she should have known it then.

What other path could she have had? She, the one who had murdered her father, who had plotted and schemed and, worse of all, coveted.

Her whole life had been temptation after temptation, an endless climb to a summit that she was finally on the precipice of reaching.

Oh, she had pretended to do it for love, for justice, for her brother and Bart and every other soul that had been hurt under this damned Eternal King.

But she had lied to herself just as much as she had lied to others. It had only ever been about power. About protecting herself from every hurt her father, her world, her most beloved other parts of her soul, could throw at her.

Greed was her most fatal flaw of all, and it had cost her everything.

“Get out,” she said, hollow. Empty. “It’s over.”

Bart moved to his feet, slowly. Careful. Hands held up in a warning, as if he was afraid she would strike him. “Shan—”

“Take whatever you need,” she continued, not giving him a chance to protest. “Take the network, take the notes, take the secrets and plots, take everything that Anton or I have ever given you.”

He lurched forward, reaching for her across the expanse of the desk, suddenly so grand that it seemed insurmountable, but Shan stepped back. Dodged the attempt at connection, like she had dodged so many attempts in the past.

At least she could say that she was consistent.

“We are done,” she repeated. “There is nothing left for you here.”

Bart just stared at her, expression hard. If he felt any pain, he didn’t show it, and for that, she was thankful.

There was nothing but sorrow in even addressing it. She inclined her head once—a stiff and formal goodbye—then turned back towards the door, walking out of the room with her head held high.

Bart did not follow her.

She did not expect him to.

Locking herself in her bedroom, she finally allowed herself to cry.

To let it all pour out of her, an endless wave of self-pity and loathing.

Everything inside her scraped clean and raw, her heart and all the tender parts reduced to a single, aching bruise.

Wallowing in the pain until all that was left was an endless numbness.

Only then did she pick herself up, dry her tears. Put away the Sparrow and the woman she had foolishly thought she could be, the happiness that she thought she could claim.

There was a future to be seized, now that there was no one left to hold her back.