Chapter 4 - The Return of the King
The bleeding finally stopped after an hour,
leaving the kitchen looking like a war zone,
blood staining the towels,
the water in the sink running pink,
and Ezra lying pale and exhausted on the wooden table.
Eleanor washed her hands methodically,
scrubbing the crimson stains from her skin with harsh soap,
her face pale but her hands completely steady.
I sat on the floor near Ezra's head,
still shaking,
my adrenaline crashing hard,
leaving me feeling hollow and sick.
"You saved him,"
I whispered,
staring at the neat,
professional stitches closing the gash on his side.
"He will need antibiotics,"
Eleanor replied,
drying her hands on a clean towel,
her voice incredibly tired,
"And he cannot move from this table until morning."
Before I could offer to help her clean the mess,
the sound of heavy,
synchronized footsteps echoed from the main hallway,
growing louder,
more menacing,
approaching the kitchen doors.
The heavy doors swung open slowly,
and the temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees.
Julian Cavanaugh,
our father,
the billionaire king of Fairhaven,
stood in the doorway,
flanked by two massive bodyguards.
He was a terrifying man,
tall,
broad-shouldered,
with eyes that looked like shattered ice,
and a reputation that made entire governments nervous.
His gaze swept the room,
taking in the shattered crystal,
the bloody towels,
Ezra lying on the table,
me sitting on the floor,
and finally,
landing on Eleanor.
"What,"
my father demanded,
his voice deceptively soft,
a deadly whisper that promised violence,
"is going on in my house?"
Nobody moved,
nobody breathed,
because speaking out of turn in front of Julian Cavanaugh was a death sentence.
But Eleanor,
unfazed by the terrifying aura of the man who owned the city,
simply picked up a wet rag and began wiping the blood off the marble counter.
"Your son was injured,"
she stated matter-of-factly,
not bothering to look up from her cleaning,
"I treated the wound,
stabilized him,
and now he is resting."
My father's eyes narrowed,
a dangerous storm brewing in his icy gaze,
and he took a slow step into the kitchen.
"And who gave you the authority to handle family business,
Miss Hargrove?"
he asked,
stopping right behind her,
his massive frame casting a dark shadow over her small figure.
"Nobody,"
she answered,
turning around to face him,
the wet rag still in her hands,
"But if I had waited for your authority,
sir,
your son would have bled to death on my floor,
and I hate scrubbing blood out of wood grain."
One of the bodyguards shifted his weight,
his hand drifting toward the weapon hidden in his jacket,
shocked by her sheer,
unbelievable audacity.
My father stared at her,
the silence stretching so tight I thought it would snap and kill us all.
Then,
slowly,
he turned his attention to me.
"Kaelen,"
he barked,
"Explain why your brother is stitched up like a ragged doll."
I opened my mouth,
struggling to find a lie that would protect Ezra,
but before I could speak,
a voice echoed from the doorway.
"He got careless,
Father,"
Asher said,
stepping into the kitchen,
his cold eyes scanning the scene,
finally lingering on Eleanor with a strange,
unreadable expression.
"It was handled,"
Asher continued,
moving to stand beside me,
forming a united front that we had never,
ever shown before,
"Eleanor kept the mess contained,
as is her job."
Julian looked from Asher,
to me,
to Ezra on the table,
and finally back to the small woman in the apron.
For a brief second,
something resembling amusement flickered in my father's eyes.
"Clean this up,"
he ordered quietly,
turning on his heel,
"And Miss Hargrove,
we will be discussing your unique set of skills in my office tomorrow."
As he walked away,
the bodyguards following closely behind,
I realized the impossible had happened.
The brothers who hated each other,
May you like
who fought each other every single day,
had just stood together to protect a housekeeper.
