Chapter 211 He’s Your Brother

Chapter 211 He’s Your Brother
Chapter 211: He’s Your Brother

Lizzie

He looked at her. Something complicated moved through his face and then hardened again. “Really? I don’t remember making that promise.” The barrel shifted, precise. “And you don’t honestly believe I drove all this way armed just to have a conversation.”

“Stop.” She pushed against his chest once. “He’s your brother. Do not shoot your own brother.”

“He is not my brother.”

“You’re going to do this in front of your children?” Her voice frayed at the edges. “In front of me? Do I not matter to you anymore?”

“They can’t hear anything.” He touched her cheek with the hand that wasn’t holding the gun, a gesture so tender it felt wrong against the rest of him. “You already know what you mean to me—”

“Roman.” Reginald stepped closer, cane tapping once against stone. “I would advise you listen to Miss Hart—”

The shot stole the rest of the sentence.

Sav’s scream ripped out of her. “Roman—what did you do?”

Randall’s roar followed immediately. “My leg—fuck—” He clutched his thigh, blood already darkening the fabric. Roman had put the round through muscle with the cold accuracy of a man who had decided death could wait and pain could not.

I spun toward the twins on instinct. 

Miles was still tucked against Ramsey’s chest. Andrea was still in Alex’s arms. Neither of them had reacted. The headphones had done their job. The pacifiers bobbed. 

The world had even exploded around them and they had not been invited to notice.

Roman’s aim shifted to Randall’s arm. His eyes, however, were on Reginald.

“Go on,” he said, almost smiling. “I would love to hear you address my wife that way again.”

Reginald’s hand tightened on the head of his cane until the knuckles blanched. “Roman, do you have any idea—”

“Did you know what your bastard was doing?” Roman asked. “Because I find it very difficult to believe you raised a demon this dedicated without catching the scent.”

“You pass judgment without wanting the truth.” Reginald’s voice stayed maddeningly even. “Randall was falsely accused by Miss Foster—”

The second shot cracked.

Randall screamed again, one hand flying to his shoulder. Roman watched him writhe with the patience of a man conducting a lesson.

“Continue,” he said. “I can do this all morning. You enjoy belittling the women your sons chose? Good. I enjoy teaching insolent old men what that costs.”

Reese stepped in, crouched just long enough to confirm Randall was still conscious, then drove a boot into his midsection. “Amazing you’re still breathing. Tough little monster, aren’t you?”

“Two down. Seven to go.” Roman’s voice was almost light. “Cats have nine lives. You can ask my wife, I don't tire easily.” 

“Enough!” Randall’s shout broke apart in a sob of pain. “You shot me—you actually shot me—”

“On your feet.” Reese fisted a hand in his hair and hauled him upright, then shoved him forward until he crumpled at Sav’s shoes. “That is not the posture for an apology. Kneel.”

“My leg—I can’t—”

Reese did not wait for the rest. Randall ended on his knees in the dirt, looking up at the woman he had spent years turning into footage.

Sav took one step back. But she did not look away.

“Five seconds,” Roman said. “You apologize to my wife and to Lizzie, or the gun goes back to work.”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out wet and hurried. “I’m really sorry.”

“See?” Roman’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Not so difficult. Now Lizzie.”

Randall turned his head. The look he gave me was not remorse. It was hatred wearing a thin costume of compliance.

“I’m sorry.”

Even the syllables sounded cheap.

“You’re lucky my wife prefers I leave people breathing,” Roman said. 

He tucked the pistol into the back of his waistband as if the morning’s violence had merely been an errand. He stepped toward Sav. 

“You get to live with the knowledge that every breath from this point forward exists because my wife asked for mercy you did not deserve.”

He snapped his fingers once, remembering.

“One more thing. I have people on the way to sweep the bedrooms. You should pray they don’t find any more of your little toys still hanging in the walls.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it—sharp, incredulous, the leftover adrenaline looking for somewhere to go.

Then I looked at Sav. Then the laugh died.

She was not all right. It was in the small things. The way her body stiffened when Roman’s arm settled around her. The way she leaned a fraction away when he bent to speak against her ear. The way her own arms stayed locked at her sides instead of answering the contact. 

Whatever argument they were going to have later was already living in the space between their bodies. It was going to be explosive. 

Roman guided her toward the steps.

Reginald chose that moment. He struck his cane once against the ground and let out a low chuckle as two of the men began lifting Randall’s bleeding, shouting form toward the house.

“Roman. I never thought I would see you on this property again.” The old man’s voice carried easily. “If memory serves, you declined the invitation to my gathering. I took that as a declaration of war—”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Roman did not slow. “The only reason my feet are on this cursed ground is your bastard—”

“Your brother,” Reginald corrected, calm as still water. “Your blood. The family you and Zachary just tried to murder in my driveway—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Reese cut in. “He put cameras in our bedrooms. In the bathrooms. He watched our wives—”

Reginald laughed. The sound was thin and too delighted and I hated it on contact.

“Wives?” He repeated the word as if tasting something spoiled. “You call these wives?” Another laugh. He looked at Sav. Then at me. Then back at his sons. 

The entire front of the manor seemed to pause.

“A wife is a partner. A companion. A woman who matches you on every level—intellect, society, body, temperament, fortune.” He let the list hang. “That is a wife. Not these girls that any man off the street could have. You are not any man. You are Blackwoods.”

Each sentence stacked higher in my chest. My hands had started to shake. I wanted the gun out of Roman’s waistband and I wanted Reginald to learn what it felt like to be small.

He gestured toward Sav as if presenting evidence.

“Your sisters are the standard. Not this one, with her questionable character and her murky, little past. It would not surprise me in the least if you had simply purchased her off the red light district—”

He never finished the sentence.

Roman’s hand crossed the space between them in one clean, brutal arc. The slap landed so hard the sound of it seemed to stop the birds a second time. 

Reginald’s head snapped to the side. The cane wobbled. And then fell out of his hand. 

For one stunned instant the old man looked almost human—offended, shocked, stripped of the script he had been reciting for decades.

No one moved.

Sav’s breath hitched beside me. Reese chuckled. On the steps, blood still dripped from Randall’s ruined morning onto stone that had seen worse and would see worse again.

Roman lowered his hand.

The imprint of it was already rising on his father’s face.

“Say it again,” he said, very quietly. “I dare you.”