No One Hurts My Daughter and Lives

Chapter 7

The Black-clad Man lowered his head, letting silence hang between them like a blade poised to fall. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and hollow. "If you're going to kill me, get it over with."

The defiance in his posture made it clear. He would sooner die than talk.

"Good." Aaron Holmes regarded him with an expression that bordered on admiration, though his eyes remained cold. "Very good. I respect that."

He leaned forward, hooking two fingers beneath the Black-clad Man's chin and tilting his face upward until their gazes locked. The assassin's pupils were steady, resigned. Aaron studied them for a long moment before releasing his grip.

"But there's something you need to understand." He straightened to his full height, then turned his back on the kneeling man with deliberate slowness. "You want a clean death?"

He let the question breathe, then glanced over his shoulder with a smile that held no warmth whatsoever.

"I won't give you one."

The Black-clad Man's jaw tightened.

"I have a hundred ways to make you wish you were dead," Aaron continued, his voice soft now, almost conversational. He pivoted on his heel, locking eyes with the assassin once more. "Ghost Healer. Start with him. Turn him into a vegetable."

The words struck like a physical blow. For the first time, something shifted behind the Black-clad Man's eyes. Not fear of death. Fear of what came before it. The terror of being trapped in a body that would neither live nor die.

Ghost Healer produced a syringe from his coat, pressing the plunger with a practiced thumb until a thin stream of liquid arced from the needle tip. He began his approach, each step measured and unhurried, letting the sound of his shoes against the floor do its own work.

The Black-clad Man's composure cracked. His head snapped up. "Wait!"

Aaron raised a hand, and Ghost Healer stopped mid-stride.

"I'll tell you who wants you dead." The assassin's voice was ragged now, stripped of its earlier composure. "But you have to agree to one condition."

Aaron's reply came without inflection. "Speak."

"Don't kill me."

A pause. Then Aaron inclined his head, as though weighing the request against some private scale. "Agreed. You'll serve under me."

The relief that flooded the Black-clad Man's face was immediate and undisguised. He answered without hesitation, the two words tumbling out as though they'd been burning a hole through his tongue. "The Tyler family."

The moment the name left his lips, a cruel smile curved across Aaron's mouth. His foot shot forward, catching the edge of a blade that lay on the ground and flipping it into the air. In one fluid motion, the steel pressed against the Black-clad Man's throat.

"You..." The assassin's hands flew to his neck. His body convulsed once, twice, and then he crumpled to the floor. His dying eyes held shock and the faintest trace of regret.

Aaron looked down at the twitching body without pity. "I said you'd serve under me," he murmured. "As another notch on my blade."

He turned to Ghost Healer. "He's yours to clean up."

"Yes, Lord Holmes."

Once Ghost Healer had disposed of the corpse and departed, Aaron stood alone in the silence. The Tyler family. The name burned through his mind like molten iron poured into a mold. His fury was volcanic, the kind that promised to consume everything in its path before it was spent.

He pulled out his phone and dialed. When the line connected, his voice was low and vicious. "Reaper. Tonight. Make the Tyler family bleed. And I mean that literally."

"Yes, sir."

Night fell over Haven City. The moon vanished behind a wall of cloud, and in the woods beyond the Tyler family estate, shadows moved with purpose. Several figures cut through the darkness like thrown knives, silent and impossibly fast.

The Tyler family did not sleep well that night.

By dawn, the news had spread through the compound like wildfire. The survivors gathered in the main hall, their faces ashen. Dorian Tyler, the second head of the household, stood at the front with his expression carved from stone.

"How did this happen?" His voice boomed through the hall. "Our security is among the tightest in the city, and a handful of assassins tore through us like we were nothing. Who is responsible?"

He swept his gaze across the crowd. "Nearly half our people had their arms severed last night. Almost no one escaped unharmed. Who has the audacity to attack us like this?"

The men and women below him shifted uneasily. They were the lucky half, the ones who had escaped intact. The rest were filling hospital beds across the city.

"We don't know," one of them ventured. "Those figures moved like ghosts. Five minutes. That's all it took for over a dozen of us to go down. We barely got away ourselves."

Fearful glances passed between them. Then Brad Tyler stepped forward from the crowd, his expression grim with certainty.

"This is Aaron Holmes's doing," he announced. "Without question."

Every head turned toward him.

"Aaron Holmes?" someone repeated. "Him again?"

"The assassin I sent after him yesterday never reported back," Brad said. "Even if the mission failed, he should have made contact. He's vanished completely. Aaron must have killed him, extracted our name, and retaliated." His voice hardened. "This is a declaration of war against the Tyler family. And we will answer it."

He drew a deep breath, and something cold and lethal settled behind his clouded eyes. The assassin he'd hired was the strongest their family had to offer. If that man had failed, sending more would be pointless.

"I have a plan," Dorian said, as though lost in thought. He leaned close to Brad and murmured several sentences. A slow, satisfied smile spread across Brad's face.

"Good. Do it exactly like that." He raised his voice. "Ethan. Come here."

A tall figure stepped forward from the assembled crowd. Dorian issued quiet instructions, then clapped Ethan Tyler on the shoulder. Ethan nodded once and left with a contingent of men in tow.

Brad watched them go, then let out a long, triumphant laugh. "Aaron Holmes. You brought this on yourself."

The laughter echoed through the hall, so loud that a flock of sparrows burst from the rooftop in a startled rush of wings.

A Bentley rolled to a stop outside the Deputy Commissioner's office. Ethan and his entourage climbed out and strode through the front doors as though they owned the building.

"Sir, someone from the Tyler family is here to see you."

The Deputy Commissioner set aside his paperwork and lifted a cup of tea to his lips, taking a measured sip. "Send him in."

He recognized Ethan at once. "What can I do for you?"

"We need your help, Deputy Commissioner." Ethan's expression shifted to one of practiced grief. "Last night, nearly half our family's people were maimed. And before that, our Roman Tyler was murdered by an outsider. We're asking you to bring us justice."

The Deputy Commissioner raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you saying?"

Ethan rose and planted his palm flat on the desk, his voice rising with carefully calibrated indignation. "You know as well as anyone that the Tyler family is one of the old houses. We've never made enemies. We run our business quietly, keep our heads down, and yet someone murdered our young master without provocation. This is an open attack against us."

He leaned forward. "We've done our homework. The man responsible has no backing, no family, no connections. His name is Aaron Holmes. He killed Roman Tyler and orchestrated the assault on our compound. We need you to bring him in."

"Aaron Holmes." The Deputy Commissioner set down his teacup, his face grave. "Attacking a great house so brazenly. I'll look into this personally. You have my word. He'll be found and brought to account."

"Thank you," Ethan said with a deferential nod.

"I'll handle it. You can go."

"We appreciate your efficiency, Deputy Commissioner. We'll take our leave."

Once the room was empty, the Deputy Commissioner picked up his phone. "Run a search through the intelligence database. I need everything on a man named Aaron Holmes."

The call came back within minutes.

"Aaron Holmes. Currently staying at the Southridge Hotel."

At the Southridge Hotel, Aaron lay stretched across the bed, staring at the ceiling. The three-day deadline with Serena was approaching, and he'd decided to stay here until then. This hotel held memories. It was the place where he and Serena Vale had once stolen time together, and even now there was a strange comfort in these walls, an echo of something warm and distant. But that belonged to another life.

A sudden, urgent pounding on the door shattered the quiet.