The War God’s Return

Chapter 5: A Price For Mercy

The silence that followed Charles's last boast felt heavy, oppressive. Then Mila's voice cut through it, small and desperate.

"Young Master... Father needs his painkillers. He takes them every six hours just to function." Her hands twisted together anxiously. "If the Reed family cuts off his supply, he'll—he'll suffer terribly. The pain from his shattered legs is unbearable without medication."

Benjamin reached for her hand weakly. "Mila, don't—"

"She's right to worry," Charles interrupted, his confidence surging back now that he'd regained some composure. His swollen face twisted into something grotesque—a leer that made my skin crawl. "Old man Benjamin's going to be screaming in agony by tomorrow morning. Begging for relief that will never come."

"You monster," Milawhispered.

"Monster?" Charles laughed, examining his nails casually. "I prefer 'pragmatic businessman.' But you know what? I'm feeling generous today. Despite being assaulted—" He touched his bruised cheek dramatically. "—I'm willing to forgive everything. I'm willing to restore your father's medication. Hell, I'll even send my personal physicians."

"What do you want?" Mila's voice trembled.

Charles's grin widened, predatory and vile. "It's simple, really. Tonight. Room 903 at the LanghamHotel. You come to me, admit you were wrong to refuse me, and serve me properly. Show me the respect a Reed heir deserves." His eyes slid to Serena, and his tongue ran across his split lip. "And bring your beautiful friend with you. Both of you, serving me together—now that would be a sight worth forgiving for."

"You're disgusting," I said flatly.

"I'm practical!" Charles shot back. "Two beautiful women for one night, and daddy dearest gets to live without pain. It's a fair trade! More than fair, considering what they did to me!" He stepped closer to Mila, his voice dropping to something that pretended to be gentle. "Come on, sweetheart. Is your pride really worth more than your father's suffering? One night. That's all I'm asking."

Mila's face had gone pale, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I—I can't—"

"You can't?" Charles's false gentleness evaporated. "Then your father can rot! He can spend every second of every day in screaming agony! It's your choice, Mila! His pain is on your hands!"

"Don't listen to him," Benjamin growled. "Mila, I forbid you—"

"Forbid?" Charles whirled on the old man. "You forbid nothing, cripple! You're a broken old fool with no power, no money, no options! Your daughter's body is the only currency you have left, and you're too stubborn to spend it!"

Serena moved. One moment she was beside me; the next, her boot connected with Charles's stomach with devastating force.

Charles flew backward, crashing into his bodyguards. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a strangled wheeze. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his midsection, his face purple.

"You—you kicked me!" he gasped between retches. "You actually—" He vomited onto the floor, his whole body shaking. "You're finished! All of you! Finished!"

His bodyguards finally moved, hands reaching for weapons.

"Touch your guns and you die," Serena said simply. Something in her voice made them freeze.

Charles struggled to his feet, supported by his men, his expensive suit stained with his own vomit. "You have no idea what you've done! No idea! The Reed family will destroy you! We'll make you beg for death! We'll—"

The sound cut him off mid-rant.

Distant at first, then growing louder. A rhythmic thumping that made the windows rattle. The unmistakable whup-whup-whup of helicopter rotors.

Charles's face lit up with vindictive glee. "Finally! That must be my father's security team! He must have sent reinforcements after I didn't check in!" He pointed at me with a shaking finger. "You're about to learn what real power looks like, you arrogant bastard!"

The noise grew deafening. Not one helicopter. Multiple.

Through the grimy window, I could see them descending—three massive medical helicopters, their rotors kicking up clouds of dust. Soldiers in crisp uniforms secured the perimeter with military precision.

Charles's grin faltered. "What... what is this?"

The front door—what was left of it—swung open. A medical team in pristine white uniforms filed in, carrying equipment. Behind them came a man in an impeccable suit, his hair silver, his bearing that of someone accustomed to absolute authority.

Jonathan Cross stepped into the cramped house like he owned it.

His eyes found me immediately, and he bowed—a gesture of profound respect. "War God. I came as quickly as I could. My apologies for the delay."

The room fell silent except for the distant sound of helicopter blades winding down.

Charles's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His face had gone from purple to chalk white in seconds.

"Mr. Vaughn?" he finally squeaked. "Jonathan Cross? The Jonathan Cross?"

Jonathan's gaze shifted to Charles, cold and dismissive. "And you are?"

"I'm—I'm Charles Dawson! Heir to the Reed Pharmaceutical Empire! We've met before, at the charity gala! You must remember—"

"Should I?" Jonathan's tone suggested he absolutely did not care.

I allowed myself a small smile. "Jonathan, I appreciate your promptness. However, I was under the impression that your medical group had received orders from the Reed family not to treat this patient."

Jonathan's expression didn't change, but I saw the bead of sweat form at his temple. "The Reed family?" He let the name hang in the air like something distasteful. "They're a minor C-ranked house, War God. Barely worth acknowledging. They survive by partnering with Vaughn Global Biotech—we allow them to distribute some of our pharmaceuticals. They're small fish. Very small fish."

Charles made a strangled sound. "Small fish? We're the Reed family! We—"

"You operate at our mercy," Jonathan said flatly. "You exist because we permit it. Nothing more."

"But I—I called you earlier! I gave you orders!"

Jonathan finally looked directly at Charles, and the contempt in his eyes was withering. "You gave me orders? You?" He laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "Young man, you don't give orders to anyone. You're a child playing at business with your father's money."

Charles's legs seemed to give out. He collapsed to his knees, his bodyguards too stunned to catch him. "Mr. Vaughn, please—I didn't mean—I was only joking earlier! About the blacklist! About the painkillers! It was all a joke!"

"A joke," I repeated quietly.

"Yes! A joke! A terrible, stupid joke!" Charles's words tumbled over each other in his panic. "I would never actually cut off someone's medical care! Never! I'm not a monster!"

"No?" I raised an eyebrow. "Five minutes ago, you threatened to make Benjamin suffer in screaming agony. You demanded his daughter and my companion come to your hotel room. You said his pain would be on Mila's hands if she refused."

"I—I was upset! Your woman slapped me! I wasn't thinking clearly!" Tears and snot ran down Charles's face, mixing with the blood from his split lip. "Please, War God—I didn't know! I didn't know who you were! If I had known—"

"If you had known, you would have what? Not a piece of trash?" Serena's voice was ice.

Jonathan cleared his throat. "War God, shall my team begin the examination?"

I nodded. "Please. Do whatever's necessary for Benjamin's recovery."

"Wait!" Charles crawled forward on his knees, his expensive suit ruined. "War God, please! I'm sorry! I'll apologize to everyone! I'll pay for the treatment! I'll do anything!"

I didn't answer. I didn't even look at him.

Jonathan pulled out his phone, his movements deliberate. "Give me a moment, War God. I need to make a call."

He stepped aside slightly, but his voice carried clearly through the room. "Director Harris? Yes, it's Jonathan Cross. Effective immediately, Vaughn Global Biotech is severing all partnerships with the Reed Pharmaceutical Group. All distribution agreements, all research collaborations, all supply contracts—terminate them. Yes, all of them. I don't care about the financial loss. Do it now."