Chapter 28: The Hunt

Julian didn't kill Silas. The assassin was already dead, his lungs filling with his own blood on the marble floor.

Using the stone wall for support, Julian forced himself to stand. The world tilted violently on its axis, his vision fading in and out of a gray, fuzzy tunnel. He leaned heavily against the wall, clutching the combat knife in his good hand. He was leaving a thick, dark trail of blood across the floor, painting the walls of his ancestral home with his own ruin.

He limped past the drawing room, past the grand dining hall where he had hosted senators and CEOs, and pushed his way through the heavy rear doors leading to the gardens.

The winter storm hit him like a physical blow. The wind howled through the barren trees, driving frozen sleet into his face. His white dress shirt was soaked in blood and sweat, clinging to his freezing skin, but the cold actually helped, numbing the shrieking agony in his limbs.

He dragged his ruined leg through the frost-covered grass, heading toward the sprawling glass greenhouse at the edge of the property. It was Victoria’s pride and joy, a massive, domed structure of steel and glass where she cultivated rare orchids from across the globe.

Now, it glowed faintly in the darkness, illuminated by the pale, ethereal light of the full moon breaking through the racing storm clouds.

Julian moved with agonizing slowness. Every step was a negotiation with unconsciousness. He felt the life draining out of him, his heartbeat slowing, the edges of his vision growing permanently dark. But he refused to die in the snow. He had to see her one last time. He had to look into the eyes of the woman who had burned his entire world to ash.

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He reached the heavy glass doors of the greenhouse. It was warm inside, the automated climate control still humming, fighting back the freezing winter night.

He pushed the door open, the warm, humid air washing over him, thick with the scent of damp earth, blooming exotic flowers, and a faint, metallic tang of iron. He stepped inside, leaning heavily against a wrought-iron planting table, his broken arm pressed tightly against his chest, the combat knife gripped loosely in his bloody hand.