THE SHADOW’S KING REVENGE

The Studio Burned

Lady Seraphine had abandoned all pretense of composure. She clutched Derek's arm with both hands, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his expensive suit jacket. Her earlier elegance had shattered along with the ballroom. A bruise was already forming on her cheek where Dominic had struck her, dark against her pale skin.

Derek tried to steady himself, tried to find some scrap of the authority that came with his name and his money. But his knees wouldn't stop shaking. He'd seen violence before—board room battles, hostile takeovers, the kind of fighting that happened with lawyers and contracts. This was something else entirely.

Tristan lay crumpled beneath Dominic's boot, whimpering. Blood trickled from his broken leg, pooling on the white marble. His eyes found Magnus standing ten feet away, and something like hope flickered across his pain-twisted face.

"Magnus," Tristan gasped through tears. "Thank God. He's—he's insane. He just attacked everyone. You have to—"

His voice rose to a sneer, some of his earlier arrogance returning now that rescue had arrived. "You're finished now. You have no idea who you're dealing with. Magnus is going to—"

Dominic lifted his boot from Tristan's head, and for a moment, Tristan looked relieved.

Then Dominic raised his foot higher and brought it down.

The sound was sickening. Skull meeting marble with enough force to crack both. Tristan's head bounced once, and then he went completely still. Blood spread from beneath him in a dark halo, creeping across the pristine floor in branching patterns.

The ballroom erupted in screams.

Women buried their faces in their partners' shoulders. Men turned away, hands over their mouths. Someone was sobbing openly. The few remaining guests who hadn't already fled scrambled for the exits, abandoning any pretense of dignity in their panic to escape.

Dominic straightened slowly. He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, his movements casual, unhurried. When he turned to face Magnus and Derek, his expression was utterly calm. Like he'd just finished a mildly interesting task.

Derek's face had gone grey. The confidence that came from decades of wealth and power had evaporated completely. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His knees finally gave out, and only Seraphine's grip on his arm kept him upright.

"You..." Derek's voice came out as a croak. "You just killed him."

Dominic's eyes settled on Derek, and the older man flinched like he'd been struck.

"Are you the one who tried to give me orders?" Dominic's voice was soft, conversational. Somehow that made it more terrifying.

"I—no—I didn't—" Derek stumbled over his words. "The guards, they called for backup, but I just—I'm just a business partner, I don't—" He swallowed hard. "Nobody challenges the Ashfords. Nobody. You don't understand what you've done."

Magnus held up one hand, and Derek fell silent immediately. The older man stepped forward, placing himself between Derek and Dominic. His movements were controlled, precise, the walk of someone who'd spent a lifetime in combat.

He stopped a few feet from Dominic and studied him for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried a note of genuine respect.

"You're strong." Magnus tilted his head slightly, acknowledging what he'd witnessed. "I won't deny it. What you did to those guards—I've seen trained soldiers who couldn't manage half of that." His eyes flicked to Tristan's motionless form. "And you have no hesitation, no mercy. That's... rare."

He clasped his hands behind his back, the stance relaxed but ready.

"But this has gone far enough. You've made your point. Whoever you are, whatever grievance you think you have—this ends now." His tone shifted, becoming harder. "Surrender. Kneel. Beg forgiveness for what you've done here tonight. Do that, and perhaps I'll make your death quick."

Dominic's expression darkened. Something cold and ancient moved behind his eyes.

"I already killed your men," he said quietly. "At the museum. The ones you sent to deface my mother's memory."

Magnus's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Eleanor Hale." Dominic took a step forward. "The woman whose work hung in that gallery before Vivienne Ashford had it destroyed. Before she replaced it with her own portrait and a plaque calling my mother an amateur."

Recognition flickered across Magnus's face. Just for an instant, his composure slipped.

"The guards who arrived tonight to harass me at her memorial—your men." Dominic's voice remained soft, but something deadly coiled beneath the words. "They won't be going home."

"You killed Ashford security personnel?" Magnus's jaw tightened. "That's—"

"You're the one who should kneel." Dominic cut him off. Each word was precise, sharp as a blade. "You're the one who should beg."

Magnus's calm facade cracked further. His hands came from behind his back, flexing at his sides.

"Boy, I don't know what delusion—"

"Ten years ago." Dominic stepped closer, close enough now that they were almost face to face. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper that somehow carried through the silent ballroom. "A studio apartment on the south side. You brought two men. One had a crowbar. The other had a lighter."

Magnus went very still.

"You burned my mother's studio. You stood there and watched her die trying to save her painting." Dominic's eyes locked onto Magnus's, and the older man actually took half a step back. "You took everything from me. From my sister. And now you dare—you DARE—tell me to kneel?"

For the first time since entering the ballroom, Magnus's professional composure shattered completely. His face flushed. His fists clenched at his sides. The muscles in his jaw stood out like cables.

"I was following orders," Magnus said, his voice tight. "I did what the Ashford family required."

"Then you'll die for the Ashford family."

Magnus's hand went to his neck, and Dominic heard the distinctive crack of knuckles popping one by one. The older man rolled his shoulders, settling into a fighting stance that looked practiced, efficient, deadly.

When he spoke, his voice had shed all pretense of civility. It was the voice of a man who'd killed before and would kill again.

"Prepare to die, boy." Magnus charged.