Page 50 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Don’t.” I cut her off, steadying myself against the desk. “Don’t insult what’s left of my intelligence after whatever Dr. Rao pumped into me.” I pick up the top document, scanning language about “unstable structures” and “mental incapacity of current owner” with growing fury.

“You would sell my birthright to the very people who tried to destroy it?”

“Elara, be reasonable—”

Reasonable. Has she ever been reasonable? Was Garrow reasonable when he had his men set fire to my home? Was Maeve reasonable when she let them drug me into silence?

Something breaks inside me. Suddenly, I feel clear and furious, the last of the sedative haze gone. I grab the stack of documents and start tearing them up, beginning with the signature pages. The sound of ripping expensive paper is oddly satisfying.

“What are you doing!?” Maeve gasps, reaching for the papers. “Stop that immediately!”

I don’t stop. I tear each page into smaller and smaller pieces, my movements growing more precise and purposeful with each rip. “This is what I think of yourpractical solution,” I say, watching the confetti of legal jargon scatter across the polished hotel carpet. “And your reasonable compensation.”

Maeve stands there, stunned, her usual calm finally slipping to show what’s really going on underneath. When the last document is in pieces at our feet, I move closer, close enough to see the small stress lines around her mouth that even her expensive creams can’t hide.

“You’ve never cared about this family’s legacy,” I say quietly. “Only how to monetize it. How much is Garrow paying you? Or is it just the professional connections? The prestige of working with the great developer who’s ‘revitalizing’ our dying little town?”

“You don’t understand what you’re dealing with,” Maeve hisses, abandoning pretense. “Garrow owns this town. Every judge, every doctor, every cop. You can’t win.”

“And you can’t sell what isn’t yours to sell,” I counter. “Stay in your lane, Maeve, or you won’t like what happens next.”

“Are you threatening me?” She almost laughs, but there’s an uncertainty in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “Look at yourself, Elara. You’ve been declared mentally unstable. You have no credibility, no allies, no resources. What exactly do you think you can do?”

What can I do? It’s a fair question. I’m alone in a town Garrow controls. I have no proof except for what everyone says are hallucinations, I’m legally considered incompetent, and I’m still dealing with the drugs they gave me.

But I’m also the heir to a sanctuary that has survived generations of attacks from men like Garrow. I’ve walked the hidden passages that have sheltered hundreds fleeing his influence. I’ve fought beside Silas against flames meant to destroy us both.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” I tell her, my voice steady despite the lingering effects of the drugs. “But you’re about to find out.”

Something moves in the corner of my eye, a shadow where there shouldn’t be one. I turn away from Maeve’s lecture about my “irrational behaviour” and look at the hotel window. Across the street, half-hidden behind a streetlamp like she’s trying out for a crime show, stands Marta Ellery. Even in the fading light, her thin frameand dark braid are easy to spot as she stares up at our window. My heart pounds. I’m not alone after all.

“Are you even listening to me?” Maeve demands, her voice sharp with frustration. The shredded documents still lie scattered around our feet, a paper battlefield marking the lines we’ve both crossed.

“Listening,” I lie, keeping my body angled toward the window. Marta hasn’t moved; her stillness is almost preternatural. How long has she been watching? Did Silas send her? Is she here on her own? Either way, her presence means something crucial: the network hasn’t abandoned me completely.

Maeve runs a hand through her perfect hair, a rare gesture of discomposure. “You don’t understand the position you’ve put me in. These aren’t people you can simply refuse.”

“You mean Garrow isn’t someone you can say no to?” I counter, studying her face more carefully now. Beneath her controlled exterior, something else lurks, not just ambition or greed, but genuine fear. “He’s threatened you too, hasn’t he?”

A flash of vulnerability crosses her features before she can mask it. “This isn’t about me. It’s about protecting what’s left of our family. That house is poison, Elara. It always has been. Everyone who gets tangled up in its history ends up—” She stops abruptly, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Ends up what?” I press.

“Destroyed.” The word comes out barely above a whisper. “One way or another.”

For a brief moment, I glimpse the scared little girl beneath Maeve’s polished exterior, the cousin who was barely a teenager herself when my parents died, who watched her aunt and uncle’s broken bodies pulled from wreckage that should have been survivable. Who perhaps has her own reasons to fear the estate and its secrets.

Then her mask slips back into place. “I need to freshen up before dinner. Don’t touch the phone.” She retreats to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

The moment I hear water running, I move swiftly to the window. My legs still feel unsteady, but urgency provides focus I didn’t have before. Marta remains in position, her gaze locked on our window. When our eyes meet, I raise my hand to the glass, tapping out a deliberate pattern, three quick taps, pause, two slower ones, the same rhythm I heard through the clinic wall. Silas’s signal.

Marta’s eyes widen slightly. She gives a single, decisive nod before melting away from the streetlamp and disappearing between buildings, her message received.

By the time Maeve emerges, I’ve returned to my seat, arranging my face into an exhausted mask that requires little acting. My body genuinely aches from the restraints, the sedatives, the tension of our confrontation.

“Room service will bring dinner in an hour,” Maeve announces, all business again. “I suggest you rest until then. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask, making my voice deliberately weak, pliant.