Page 17 of Decimation

She leans in, her lips barely moving as she whispers something in his ear. Her hand rests on the table between them, fingers splayed possessively. Konstantine nods, that easy smile widening, and then he addresses the room with whatever solution she’s just fed him.

“We’ll implement a graduated response,” he says, his voice carrying that practiced charm that’s supposed to make everyone forget he’s weak. “Start with economic sanctions, escalate to direct intervention if necessary. Senator Blackwood, I trust you can coordinate with our assets in the region?”

Blackwood nods, though I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. He’s noticed the same thing I have. We all have, probably. The way Konstantine can’t seem to function without her.

The meeting continues. Trade agreements. A dispute over some minor protocol that should have been settled weeks ago. With every topic, I watch the same pattern repeat itself. Konstantine looks to Ines. She whispers. He speaks. Like she’s a fucking ventriloquist, and he’s the dummy on her knee.

It’s pathetic.

He was groomed for this role from birth. Our father spent decades preparing him, moulding him, teaching him everything he needed to know about leadership, power, and control. Konstantine should be confident. He should be decisive. He should command this room the way our father did, with absolute authority that brooks no question.

Instead, he’s a puppet.

Senator Morrison raises a concern about our operations in the southern territories, something about local law enforcement getting too curious, asking too many questions. It’s a legitimate issue, one that requires careful handling. Konstantine opens his mouth to respond, then stops. His gaze shifts to Ines again, that same helpless look of a child seeking mommy’s approval.

She smiles at him. It’s a small thing, barely a curve of her lips, but I see the way it transforms his expression. Like he’s just been granted permission to exist. Her hand moves from the table to his thigh, settling there with casual ownership. The gesture is subtle enough that most of the room probably doesn’t notice, but I do.

I see it for exactly what it is.

An analogy. A perfect fucking metaphor for what’s happening to the Brethren under Konstantine’s leadership, or lack thereof. She’s taking over everything, piece by piece, decision by decision. Her hand on his thigh is just like her influence on his mind, spreading like a cancer, consuming everything it touches until there’s nothing left of the man he’s supposed to be.

My jaw clenches. I force myself to breathe slowly, evenly, to keep the rage from showing on my face. This is my brother. My blood. I’m supposed to support him, stand beside him, be the loyal second-in-command that our father raised me to be.

But watching this makes me want to put my fist through the mahogany table.

I clear my throat, realising that this is my moment. That I have to say something now. That with all the evidence I have, it is time to call this out, to present this to the Senate and launch an official investigation into the disappearance of Paitlyn Heseltine.

But as I open my mouth, Ines shoots a look at me and then squeezes Konstantine’s arm in a clear signal. My brother immediately stands and Ines rises with him, her hand lingering on his arm like she’s afraid he might float away without her as the anchor.

It’s obvious what this is, obvious that Konstantine knows what I’m about to do, and he’s determined to not let it happen. What the fuck is his problem? Why is he so against finding the truth?

The senators begin to file out, their voices dropping to hushed murmurs as they exit the chamber.

I move to leave as well, eager to get out of this room before I say something I’ll regret. But as I pass a cluster of senators near the door, their voices carry just loud enough for me to catch the tail end of their conversation.

“…can’t continue like this,” Senator Hartley is saying, his tone low and urgent. “The Grand Master needs to show strength, not…”

“Not what?” Senator Chen interrupts. “Not let his bitch run the show? We all see it, Hartley. The question is what we do about it.”

I should keep walking, should pretend I didn’t hear.

But something makes me stop, makes me turn back to face them. Maybe it’s loyalty. Maybe it’s just the need to defend my brother, even when he doesn’t deserve it.

“Is there a problem?” My voice cuts through their murmuring, sharp enough to make them both straighten.

Hartley has the decency to look uncomfortable. Chen just meets my gaze with that calculating expression he’s perfected over his thirty years as a Brethren Senator.

“No problem, Lazarus,” Hartley says quickly. “Just discussing the meeting.”

“Sounded like more than that.” I step closer, letting my presence fill the space between us. I’m taller than both of them, broader too, and I know how to use my physicality to intimidate when necessary. “Sounded like you had concerns about our Grand Master’s leadership.”

Chen doesn’t flinch. “We have concerns about our Grand Master’s judgment,” he says carefully. “There’s a difference.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“There’s a bitch in the Grand Master’s bed,” Chen says flatly, dropping all pretence of diplomacy. “And until she’s fixed, nothing good will come of his rule. You know it as well as we do, Lazarus. You’ve seen what she’s doing to him.”

The words hit like a slap. Not because they’re wrong, but because hearing them spoken aloud makes them real in a way they weren’t before. It makes them a truth that can’t be ignored or rationalized away as just my own paranoia.