“You’ll just harass other boys.”

That was part of why I wanted to kill him. Not only because of all the things he did to me, but because of the prospect he might do them to others. He’d said he hadn’t touched an unwilling victim in five years. I had no reason to take his word for it.

“Can’t.” He shook his head in the mask violently, probably making himself dizzy. “Not in Brunei. I won’t even be able to have a relationship. It’s strict over there. They would kill me if they find out I’m gay.”

“You’re not gay; you’re a pedophile.”

“That’s illegal there all the same.” He didn’t try to deny it.

I knew it was stupid to stand here and listen to him. If he didn’t follow through with his promises, I was going to be in deep shit for attempted murder, no matter how solid my alibi was.

Besides, I wanted him dead.

I did.

I just didn’t want Lenora to be secretly appalled by me, and I didn’t understand why I cared so much. I knew she would understand, but I could already feel her disappointment everywhere. It scorched my skin.

It seemed like I couldn’t will my heart to stop wanting her any more than I could will it to stop beating. They had a word for what I was feeling, but I didn’t want to say it. Think it. Consider it.

Love. I was in love with Lenora Astalis. Had been from the goddamn get-go.

I’d offered her a brownie because I wanted to talk to her.

I’d followed her back to her room at Carlisle after she’d entered the darkroom because I wanted to thrust myself into her life with a dirty pact. A bargain. A silent contract.

I bullied her because I loved her.

I loved her because she was the only girl who looked at me and didn’t see money or status or violence or a heartless prince.

She saw me.

I took a step back. Harry saw it. I hated myself for choosing love over hate. I hated myself for fucking myself over, for not going through with it because of a pussy.

But she wasn’t just a pussy, was she?

“That’s it, lad. That’s it. Do the right thing.”

As he said it, the front door opened and closed behind me. I turned around, my eyes widening in horror when I saw who stood on the other side.

My father walked in, his face a blank mask of death.

“Vaughn, go back to Berkshire and call my PA on your way home. Tell her to get someone to come fix that window. Today,” he enunciated, his voice steadfast.

I jerked my chin up. “I don’t want you to interfe—” I started.

He plucked the weapon from my hand and pressed it to the base of my neck, exactly on my vein. “I don’t care what you want. Go.”

I did the thing I should have done when I was eight.

When I was ten.

When I was thirteen.

For the first time in my life, I let my father take care of me. Deal with my bullshit. Help me.

I closed the door behind me, shaking my head.

Family is destiny.

“You told my son he wouldn’t get the girl if he got revenge. Well, lucky me, I already got the girl. I get to have both.”

I ate the distance between me and Harry Fairhurst in two steps, deliberately stepping on his fingertips. He arched his back, yelping. An injured animal. I removed the mask from his face so he could have a front-row seat to what I was about to do to him.

“Baron,” he whimpered, his face red, swollen, and blotchy with hysteria. “Thank God you’re here. Vaughn clearly needed a voice of reason.”

Nice try, motherfucker.

I crouched down, digging my heel into the fingers of his healthy hand and meeting his gaze. I heard them crack under my shiny loafers. As soon as he saw what was behind my eyes, his face turned from panicked to ashen. I wasn’t here to strike a deal or to relieve him of his destiny.

I was here to collect a debt.

Vengeance.

My son’s pride. My son’s life.

And it’s been long overdue.

“You can’t…you don’t know…p-people will…”

“Find out?” I finished the sentence for him sardonically, flicking his chin up and forcing him to hold my gaze. “Fat chance, considering you’re currently in the midst of committing suicide.”

“But I’m not…”

I grabbed him by his blond hair, cut expensively and touched up to disguise any grays, dragging him to his dining table and sitting him down. His skull and forehead were bright red. I plucked a grocery list notepad and a pen from next to the fridge and placed them on the table, grabbing the seat opposite him. My son’s dagger burned a hole in my hand.

“Start writing.”

Ten minutes later, his suicide letter was done. The handwriting was legit, and he got a nice incentive to play along, seeing as I gave him a deal he couldn’t refuse.

“Write the letter and go peacefully, swallowing a bunch of pills. Don’t write the letter and I slit your wrists in your bathtub and watch you bleed. Either way, you’ll be dead before dinnertime, and it will look like suicide. The awful, messy way or the peaceful way? Up to you.”

He chose the pills.

When he was done writing, he looked up from the notepad expectantly. His eyes were red, hollow, soulless. I tried not to think about what they’d seen when he was alone with my son. I tried not to think about a lot of things in that moment. My wife—my beautiful wife that I loved more than life itself, who gave meaning to my existence—liked Harry’s work, and I’d let him into my life. Into my house.

If she ever found out, she was going to kill him herself. Then fling herself off of a rooftop. I knew Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer better than she knew herself.

There was only one person she loved more than me.

Our son.

“Medicine cabinet?” I angled an eyebrow. I wasn’t prone to big speeches. I wanted to get it over with. I heard a truck parking outside the house, the sound of the vehicle automatically locking, and knew it was the glazier who’d come to fix the window. We had to slip away from the first floor quickly. Luckily, Fairhurst was too far gone inside his own head to notice potential help could be on the way.

“U-upstairs,” he stuttered. He smelled of piss and desperation.

Thank fuck. “Let’s rock n’ roll.”

The glazier walked in through the half-open door exactly a second after we went up the stairs. We slid into Harry’s en suite, and I locked the door behind us. Emptying the cabinet’s shelves, I grabbed everything at hand—paracetamols, aspirin, nefopam, ketamine (wasn’t sure what business that had being there, but I couldn’t complain. This shit could kill a horse with a bit of enthusiasm and the wrong quantities), and the usual variety of Xanax, Ativan, and other benzo drugs.

I emptied the pills across his gray marble counter and nodded toward them. “Any last words?”

“I…” he started.

“Kidding. I don’t give a fuck.”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t have any water.” He side-eyed me with a pouty frown, the piss stain on his pants drying and stinking up the entire bathroom. I heard the guy downstairs whistling to himself, working quickly, and knew he had no idea we were upstairs. His invoice had no doubt already been paid by my PA. As far as he was concerned, he was all alone.