As Kael Renforth approached Deven, an oppressive silence enveloped the scene. Lyria's conflicted emotions warred within her. Fear for Kael's safety clashed with the nagging thought that if it came to the worst, she might have to accept Victor Silvervein's proposal to protect her family.
"That reckless fool! Not only did he kill Valen Malavant, but he nearly dragged the entire Denvair family down with him!" Eldrin Denvair spat, his face alternating between anger and frustration. "I've been telling you to divorce him. Well, this solves the problem—he's as good as dead now."
To the rest of the Denvair family, Kael's choice to go with Deven was nothing short of suicidal. No one believed he'd make it out alive.
Deven himself regarded Kael with a mix of disdain and curiosity. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But guts don't fix colossal mistakes."
Kael remained silent, his expression unreadable as Deven's men flanked him and escorted him into a heavily armored vehicle—a vehicle that matched Deven's towering, almost two-meter frame and his reputation as the Malavant family's fearsome enforcer.
The convoy of cars roared away from the Denvair house, cutting through Port Avallon like a serpent on the hunt. Inside the car, Deven eyed Kael, his earlier irritation giving way to a sense of curiosity.
"Strange," Deven mused, leaning back against the leather seat. "You're not trembling. Not pleading. Don't tell me you've already accepted your fate?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with mockery, as Deven chuckled at his own words. But the laugh died abruptly.
A chilling sensation crept up the back of his head. His body stiffened.
The sharp press of cold steel rested against the base of his skull.
It is a gun.
Sweat began to bead on his forehead and trickled down his face like a slow, icy stream.
Deven's eyes darted toward the window, catching a reflection—a woman's face, pale and strikingly beautiful, her expression colder than the grave. Her presence was like a phantom, unnoticed until now.
As a seasoned fighter and enforcer, Deven's instincts screamed at him. The intensity of her killing intent was unmistakable. This wasn't some bluff—she meant business.
"What's the meaning of this, miss?" he asked, his voice tight but steady, masking his growing unease.
The woman offered no reply. The silence in the vehicle became suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the engine.
The realization hit him like a sledgehammer: the flawless plan had a glaring blind spot. He hadn't accounted for her.
Deven's mind raced as fear and frustration tangled in his chest. For the first time in his career, he wasn't the predator—he was the prey.
He couldn't die here. He wouldn't.
Deven tensed his body and moved in a sudden burst, reaching for the weapon. In the blink of an eye, his hand closed the gap, now only centimeters from her gun. Victory seemed within reach.
Click.
The barrel of the weapon didn't waver. Instead, it shifted with precision, now aimed squarely at the center of his forehead.
Deven froze.
The woman leaned closer, her face a study in icy indifference. Her beauty, though otherworldly, paled in comparison to the ruthlessness in her gaze. It wasn't her striking features that left him paralyzed—it was the complete absence of mercy in her eyes.
For the first time in his life, Deven knew what it meant to feel true fear.