Roman looked up at me, something shifting in his expression. He’d pinned Declan’s unconscious form beneath him andscooped up the gun that had been knocked away in the fight. The barrel pressed against Declan’s temple.
One pull of the trigger, and this nightmare would be over.
But as he looked up at me through the haze of gasoline fumes, I could see him hesitating. Not from mercy—from something else. Some recognition of what this choice would cost him.
"Roman," I called softly, moving down the stairs toward them. "It’s over. He’s finished."
But even as I said the words, I could see smoke beginning to curl from somewhere deeper in the house. Whatever fire Declan had started before Roman arrived was spreading, and the gasoline fumes were making everything worse.
Roman’s finger was on the trigger, Declan motionless beneath him. For a moment, I thought he might pull it. End it cleanly.
Then Declan’s eyes snapped open.
His hand moved with desperate speed, pulling something from his jacket pocket. Another book of matches.
"If I can’t have the empire," he gasped, striking a match against the box, "no one can."
Time slowed to a crawl as I watched the fresh flame flare to life in Declan’s grip. Roman could’ve shot him—should’ve shot him—but I was behind him, and the angle was wrong.
Instead, Roman dove forward, trying to knock the match away from Declan’s hand.
Too late.
Declan, dazed but determined, flicked the burning match toward the gasoline-soaked stairs where I stood.
The world exploded into orange and gold as flames raced up the banister like living things, consuming everything in their path. The heat hit me like a physical blow, singeing my hair and making my eyes water.
"ROMAN!" I screamed, but the roar of the fire swallowed my voice.
The mansion—Roman’s father’s legacy, his kingdom, our home—began to burn around us.
And somewhere in the smoke and chaos, I could hear Declan laughing.
28
ROMAN
The flames consumed everything.
I stood over Declan’s crumpled form, my knuckles split and bleeding, smoke burning my lungs with every breath. The mahogany staircase—carved by my great-grandfather’s hands—crackled and groaned as fire ate through generations of Creed history.
Declan’s pale eyes fluttered open, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth where my fist had connected. His breathing was shallow, labored, but that fucking smirk still played at his lips.
"Kill me, Roman," he wheezed, coughing up blood that splattered across the marble floor. "That’s what you’re supposed to do to traitors."
My hands were empty—the gun had been lost somewhere in our brutal fight, knocked away when we’d crashed into the gasoline-soaked furniture. I could see it now, glinting in the firelight several feet away, too far to reach without leaving Cassie exposed.
Cassie stood behind me, her back pressed against the wall, watching with wide eyes as I made a choice that would have been unthinkable just months ago. The old Roman would have used his bare hands. Would have snapped Declan’s neck without hesitation.
But something stopped me. Maybe it was the smoke choking the air, making everything feel like a fever dream. Maybe it was Cassie’s presence behind me, her quiet strength reminding me I didn’t have to be the man who solved everything with violence.
Or maybe I was just tired of being a monster.
Instead, I yanked off my belt and used it to bind his wrists to the wrought-iron stair railing. The leather bit deep into his skin, but he was too weak to resist.
"You’re going to live with what you’ve done," I said, my voice rough from smoke and rage. "If you survive this burning inferno, you’re going to wake up every day knowing you destroyed everything and got nothing for it."
Declan’s laugh turned into a coughing fit that painted his lips crimson. "Soft," he gasped. "Just like I said. She made you soft."
