Chapter 45 - The Island of the Damned Heirs
The trek up the rocky switchback was an exercise in pure agony.
Elena took each step as if walking on broken glass. Her hips felt dislocated; every jolt sent fiery needles shooting into her spine. Christian supported her with his good arm, his boots slipping on the pine needles and frozen mud. Between them, nestled inside the fleece lining of Elena’s torn jacket, Scarlett slept, sheltered by her mother's body heat.
They reached the wrought-iron gates. They were unlocked, hanging slightly ajar, fresh tire tracks grooved into the gravel driveway.
"Someone arrived here tonight," Christian murmured, unholstering Marcus's backup Glock 19 with his functional hand. "Stay behind me."
The mansion loomed over them like a gothic tombstone. Constructed from dark, weather-beaten granite, it boasted soaring turrets, leaded glass bay windows, and a wraparound porch that groaned in the gale. The Atlantic raged three hundred feet directly below the cliff’s edge behind the estate, sending plumes of white sea spray over the roof tiles.
Christian gently pushed the heavy oak front door open.
It swung inward without a sound, the brass hinges freshly oiled.
The interior was warm. The scent of burning hickory wood and beeswax filled the high-ceilinged foyer. Crystal chandeliers hummed with low electric current, casting long, elegant shadows across oil portraits of stern-faced Montgomery ancestors lining the mahogany staircase.
"Welcome home, children."
The voice was like chilled honey, echoing down from the grand mezzanine above.
Elena looked up, her blood turning to ice.
Standing at the top of the double staircase was Victoria Montgomery.
She wore a charcoal cashmere dressing gown, her platinum-blonde hair styled in an impeccable chignon, not a single strand out of place. In her manicured hand, she held a crystal tumbler of amber scotch. Her face bore no burns, no bruises, no signs of having spent the night on a sinking mega-yacht.
Beside her, holding an ivory-handled cane and dressed in clean, dry clothes, was Julian.
A deep, jagged cut ran from Julian’s left temple to his jawline, closed with crude black butterfly sutures, giving his handsome face a grotesque, predatory asymmetry. But his eyes—those chilling, soulless eyes—were locked entirely on the bundle in Elena’s arms.
"You really are remarkable, Elena," Victoria purred, descending the staircase with the regal grace of a queen granting an audience to peasants. "Most women of your social standing would have perished in the bilge. But you actually brought our heir to the doorstep. Julian, darling, wasn't I right? Breeding counts for nothing; raw survival instinct is so much more durable."
Julian descended behind his mother, his lips curling into a triumphant sneer. "You owe me ten million, Mother. I told you she’d make it off the ship."
Christian raised the Glock, his hand shaking from exhaustion and blood loss. "Move another inch, Julian, and I blow your throat out."
Victoria didn't even look at the gun. She took a sip of her scotch and smiled.
"Christian, dear. Look behind you."
From the shadows of the dining room and the library, four men stepped out silently. They wore black tactical gear, armed with suppressed submachine guns, their red laser sights instantly painting Christian’s chest and forehead.
May you like
"Lower the weapon, Christian," Victoria said softly. "Or my men will shoot you, take the child, and throw Elena off the cliff. Just as I did on her wedding night."
***
