No One Hurts My Daughter and Lives

Chapter 6

A gentle breeze drifted across Southridge Riverside Park as Serena Vale arrived at the appointed hour. The river lapped softly against the stone embankment, and there at the water's edge stood a figure with his back turned to her.

Serena studied the breadth of his shoulders, the quiet authority in his posture. He stood like a fortress wall, immovable and certain. This was not the frail, bookish young man she remembered from years ago. That person had vanished entirely.

"You came," Aaron said, turning to face her. His expression was cool, his tone clipped.

Years ago, when they used to meet like this, his eyes would have softened at the sight of her. Now there was nothing but iron composure.

"Mm." The sound escaped her barely above a whisper. "It's been so long. You've changed so much."

Aaron showed no reaction. "I asked you here this late because there's something important. It's about Liv."

"What happened to her?" Serena stepped forward, alarm threading through her voice.

"She's stable for now. But if we want a real cure, the best option is a matching bone marrow donor." He paused, then relayed everything Ghost Healer had told him with the same unshakeable calm.

The color rose steadily in Serena's cheeks as she listened. "I understand," she managed.

"I'm thinking of Liv first in all of this," Aaron continued. "If I can't find a matching donor, her leukemia becomes untreatable. There would be nothing anyone could do."

He let a beat pass. "I won't force you. You have three days. Meet me at the Southridge Hotel. If you don't come, that's your choice."

His tone remained flat, but beneath it lay something unspoken. He wanted her to come. If she refused, he would exhaust every other avenue for his daughter. But this was the surest path.

"I'll be there." Serena's cheeks burned. She turned her gaze to the river, unable to meet his eyes. "I promise."

"Then I'll be going."

He walked past her without another word, and then he was gone. Serena remained where she stood, alone by the water, staring at nothing for a long time.

The following day, the great hall of the Tyler family estate was thick with tension. The three branch patriarchs had gathered with their retinues, filling the room with grim-faced men. It was rare for all three to convene at once.

A scout knelt at the center of the hall. "We've confirmed it. The man who killed Roman Tyler is Aaron Holmes. His background is entirely ordinary. No affiliations, no notable connections."

From the raised platform above, Dorian Tyler let out a wail. His fingers clawed at the armrests of his chair. "My son! How could my son have been killed by someone so beneath him?"

"Please accept our condolences," the surrounding men murmured.

Brad Tyler, seated at the head of the hall, raised a hand for silence. "I understand my brother's grief. Roman's death weighs heavily on all of us." He turned to face Dorian. "Rest assured. I've already dispatched assassins."

Dorian slammed his fist against the armrest. "I want a blood feud settled! His worthless life isn't worth a fraction of my son's!"

Brad nodded. "Not only will he die, but everyone connected to him will be dragged into Haven Penitentiary. Every last one."

Night fell over the Southridge Hotel. In an unremarkable corner room, Aaron lay on the bed with his eyes closed.

A faint sound from beyond the window made his eyes snap open. Years of living on the edge had honed his instincts to a razor's sharpness. The air carried a presence, a killing intent so faint that an ordinary person would never have noticed.

"Jester," Aaron called out softly.

He snatched a steel pen from the bedside table and hurled it toward the window. It punched through the glass with a sharp crack, embedding itself in the wall across the alley.

Outside, a dark figure flinched. The assassin had planned to end this in the rain-soaked darkness. But Aaron had detected him instantly, and the force behind that thrown pen spoke of decades of training.

The Black-clad Man hesitated, then withdrew into the shadows.

"Lord Tyler never told me this target was this dangerous," he muttered as he fled. "I'll need to catch him completely off guard. One shot. One kill."

Aaron listened as the presence faded, then lay back down and drifted into half-sleep.

The next morning, Aaron walked through Southridge Riverside Park again. Sunlight filtered through the trees as he let himself drift through old memories.

A black stray cat burst from the undergrowth and froze, staring at him with luminous eyes. Aaron met its gaze. Then the cat vanished back into the brush with a piercing yowl, bolting along the riverbank until it disappeared.

In that same instant, a shadow exploded from behind a nearby tree.

"Now!"

The Black-clad Man materialized with a dagger already in motion, closing the distance while Aaron's attention lingered on the fleeing cat. The blade was an inch from his back when Aaron felt the killing intent wash over him.

His right hand moved. Index and middle fingers spread apart, then snapped together, catching the blade between them.

The assassin's blood ran cold.

Aaron twisted his wrist. The dagger snapped like a dry twig, the halves clattering to the ground.

The Black-clad Man released the hilt and spun to flee, but Aaron's other hand seized his collar with irresistible force, wrenching him backward. In the same motion, Aaron flicked the broken blade edge across the man's face, slicing through the mask. The fabric fell away, revealing a sallow, scarred face marked by old knife wounds.

The assassin's eyes went wide. He sucked in a breath and opened his mouth. Beneath his tongue sat a poison capsule, his jaw already closing on it.

Aaron's hand shot forward, clamping over the man's jaw. He pried it open, flicked his fingers, and the capsule tumbled to the ground.

Before the assassin could try anything else, Aaron tore a strip from the man's shirt and stuffed it between his teeth.

The Black-clad Man stared up in disbelief. He had never imagined falling to a target this completely.

"Who gave you the courage?" Aaron's voice was quiet.

Four precise strikes shattered the bones in both arms and both legs. The assassin convulsed, a muffled scream dying against the gag.

Aaron pulled the cloth free. The man's face had gone chalk-white.

"Tell me. Who sent you?"

The assassin fixed him with a hateful glare, said nothing, and bit down hard on his own tongue. His eyes rolled back and he went limp.

Aaron stared at the unconscious body. He hadn't expected such desperate resolve. "You're making this very difficult for me."

He dialed his phone. "Ghost Healer. I need you at Southridge Riverside Park. Now."

"Yes, Lord Holmes." The weathered voice asked no questions.

Thirty minutes later, a man in a Daoist robe arrived carrying a medical case. Ghost Healer surveyed the scene: the broken hilt on the ground, the shattered assassin in the grass, the blood at his mouth.

"He bit through his tongue," Aaron said.

Ghost Healer knelt and worked with practiced efficiency. "He'll live. Only unconsciousness, no permanent damage beyond what you've done to his limbs."

Half an hour later, the assassin's eyes fluttered open. Sensation returned slowly, but his body refused to obey.

"Who sent you?" Aaron demanded.

The Black-clad Man let out a cold snort and said nothing.

Ghost Healer studied him with something like pity. "A sworn blade to the end." He shook his head. "Tell me, was this truly worth it?"