Chapter 140
Devon's POV
I could see the flames through the window, a beautiful orange glow consuming Connor's designer curtains. The way fire danced across imported Italian furniture and priceless artwork gave me a peculiar sense of peace. Some men just want to watch the world burn, they say. In my case, I was content with watching my brother's world burn.
From my stone bench in the garden, I crossed one leg over the other and studied the growing inferno. My abdomen throbbed with pain, the bullet wound still fresh despite the doctors' work. But pain had always been a faithful companion in this house. What was a little more?
Marcus stood silently at the side entrance, ensuring no one would interrupt our family reunion. Blood stained his shirt—not his, but mine from when he'd helped me from the car. He'd offered to carry this burden too, as he had so many others. I'd refused. Some debts must be paid personally.
The first scream pierced through the night—high-pitched, feminine. One of Connor's playmates discovering their playground was ablaze. The second scream followed quickly, creating a delightful duet of panic. Then came the sound I'd been waiting for: my brother's voice, thick with rage and fear.
"Fuck! Devon! What the hell?"
Connor's face was illuminated by the flames behind him. Naked from the waist up, hair disheveled, eyes wide with disbelief. The golden child of the Kane family, suddenly not so golden.
I raised my hand in greeting. "Morning, brother. Sleep well?"
"Are you fucking insane?" he shouted, gripping the window frame. "This is the family estate!"
I offered him my most practiced smile. "And?"
Behind him, one of the women screamed again. "Fire! The fire's coming up the stairs!"
Connor turned, his face contorting in panic as he realized his escape route was gone. When he looked back at me, I saw something rarely present in my brother's eyes: fear. Not the manufactured kind he'd use to manipulate Father, but genuine terror.
He ran to the door, yanking it open only to find Marcus standing there, expression impassive. No help would come from that direction. Connor's options dwindled to two: burn or jump.
Death or pain.
I watched the calculation play across his features. Connor had always chosen self-preservation above all else. Today would be no different.
With a strangled curse, he climbed onto the windowsill and leaped. His body hit the manicured lawn with a satisfying thud, followed by the sharp crack of breaking bone. His leg, from the sound of it. A scream tore from his throat—raw, primal, music to my ears.
I rose slowly, each movement sending fresh waves of agony from my bullet wound. The price of Connor's betrayal, delivered by his own hand. I approached him with unhurried steps, savoring his struggles to crawl away.
"When Father hears about this," Connor spat between pained breaths, "he'll destroy you!"
I placed my shoe precisely on his broken leg, applying just enough pressure to make him howl. "Or what?" I asked, leaning down to meet his gaze. "I'll make you wish for death."
Connor's face, usually so confident, so privileged, twisted in agony. "Devon, please—"
"Father always taught us to endure pain silently," I remarked, pressing harder. "Seems you weren't paying attention during those lessons either."
His scream echoed across the garden, cutting through the crackling of flames. I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Remember this, Connor. Next time, you won't be this lucky."
"DEVON!" My father's voice thundered across the garden. Arthur Kane stood at the entrance, his face contorted with rage. "What is the meaning of this?"
I turned slowly, careful not to show the pain that lanced through me with every movement. "The fire? I started it."
Father's eyes narrowed, shifting between me, Connor writhing on the ground, and the burning east wing. "Put it out immediately!" he commanded the staff who had begun to gather. Then his gaze hardened on me. "Study. Now. You'll answer to family law."
I walked past him without acknowledgment, my spine straight despite the agony that radiated through my body. The family estate's corridors stretched before me, lined with portraits of Kane ancestors who had built this empire. None of them looked like me. They all resembled Connor.
Marcus fell into step beside me. "Let me take your punishment," he murmured. "You're injured."
"Go back to the city," I ordered quietly. "I'll handle this."
He hesitated, loyalty warring with obedience. "Sir—"
"That's an order, Marcus."
He nodded reluctantly and departed, leaving me to face my father alone. I continued toward the study, that temple of patriarchal authority where Father had delivered countless "lessons" throughout my childhood.
The oak-paneled room smelled of leather and old books, a scent I'd come to associate with humiliation. Father's desk dominated the space, flanked by shelves of first editions he'd never read. Behind it hung portraits of my grandfather and great-grandfather, stern-faced men who had built the Kane fortune through means they preferred not to document.
Father entered, closing the door with deliberate softness. More threatening than a slam.
"Kneel," he commanded, reaching for the rattan cane he kept in the umbrella stand.
I laughed softly. "Is that still how we do things in this family? Brothers trying to kill each other isn't exactly rare in these walls, is it?"
"You deliberately destroyed family property," Father growled. "Connor could have died."
"Yes," I agreed. "He could have." I made no move to kneel.
Father's face darkened. "Remove your shirt and kneel, Devon."
With deliberate slowness, I unbuttoned my bloodstained shirt. The bandage across my abdomen was spotted with fresh blood. But it wasn't this wound that made Father's eyes widen. It was the older scars that crisscrossed my back—some faded white with age, others still pink and angry.
"Where did these come from?" Father's voice had lost some of its edge.
"Where do you think?" I replied coldly.
Father raised the cane, his hand trembling slightly as he looked at the wounds on my back. For a moment, I thought I saw something like guilt in his eyes. His arm remained suspended, the cane never descending.
I pulled my shirt back on, not bothering with the buttons. "If you're finished, the company needs attention. Unlike some people, I actually work for the Kane name."
As I reached the door, it burst open. My mother stood there breathlessly, her normally perfect appearance disheveled. "Arthur, no! Devon is injured, you can't possibly—"
The look that passed between my parents spoke volumes about battles fought behind closed doors. My mother's hand found my arm, her touch gentle but insistent. "Come, Devon. Let the staff handle the fire. You need rest."