Page 89 of The Violet Raven

Then, they emerge—dragging James first. Blood drips from his face, his clothes torn and his gait unsteady. Yet his eyes are fierce, unbroken.

Behind him, Ellen stumbles, a fistful of her hair wrapped in the man’s hand pulling her forward. Lip split, blood trailing down her chin, but she holds her head high.

Casey shifts beside me, a quiet gasp escaping his throat. Before he can make another sound, Bran hisses in his ear. “Don’t, Casey. You’ll give us away.”

Callan’s sharp gaze locks on the figures emerging from the darkness. His knuckles whiten around the hilt of his blade, but he doesn’t move.

Two figures haul Marcus into view, his battered face streaked with blood and his body sagging lifelessly. They toss him to the ground in front of James and Ellen without a shred of care.

“So much for his damned help,” Callan growls, his voice like gravel, thick with barely restrained fury. “He stayed behind, swore he’d buy us time, make a difference. And yet here he is—bloodied, beaten, and thrown at their feet like a useless scrap.”

Hooves thunder in the distance, and a new group of riders arrives. At their head is a man whose presence seems to draw the warmth from the wind itself. He dismounts in one fluid motion. His boots, polished black leather, are sturdy but finely crafted. They’re not the scuffed footwear of a common soldier—they speak of wealth and power, a reminder that he is not like the men he commands.

His long coat billows slightly in the wind, a dark woolen garment with reinforced shoulders. The fabric is well-fitted but functional, its deep black colour blending into the night. The high collar, turned up against the night, frames a face carved in sharp, angular lines.

His hat—a broad-brimmed, dark felt affair—sits low over his brow, casting his face in shadow. He lifts it, revealing sharp, calculating eyes that glint like steel in the torchlight. His presence radiates control and menace, a man who orchestrates violence not for the thrill, but for the cold efficiency of achieving his goals.

The man stops in front of James, his tone coiled in mock curiosity.

“Where is she?” he asks, his tone cold and sharp.

“Henry Charles Sirr,” James says. “Fancy seein’ ye after all these years.” He meets Sirr’s gaze without flinching. “I dinnae ken who ye mean.”

A ripple of shock grips me, and my gaze snaps to Callan and Casey. Their eyes mirror my disbelief, their subtle shakes of the head confirming what I already suspect—they know nothing of this. Nothing of James’s past with this man. And yet, here it is, unfolding before us like the turning of a hidden page in a story we were never meant to read.

Two men emerge from the house, shaking their heads. “The place is empty. Whoever was here didn’t leave long ago. The house is in disarray, and it’s still got a bit of warmth to it,” one says.

Sirr’s eyes narrow as he steps closer to James. “So, you were warned, I presume?”

James says nothing, his silence a wall Sirr cannot breach.

Sirr’s gaze shifts to Marcus, lying in a crumpled heap. A cruel smirk plays on his lips. “The poor fool was so desperate to fuck the girl that he threw away his future without a second thought. How tragically predictable.” He clicks his tongue, almost amused. “His father will be thrilled to hear about it—when he arrives to collect what’s left of his disgrace of a son.”

“How the hell did they know about Triona?” Bran questions rhetorically. We all exchange glances, unsure what the hell is happening.

James’s head tilts slightly toward where we hide, his gaze sweeping the darkness—too precise, too knowing. It shouldn’t be possible for him to see us, but the way his eyes pause, the way they seem to linger just a moment too long, sends a shiver down my spine.

Is it instinct? A final, desperate hope we aren’t there?

My body feels paralyzed, my feet rooted to the ground, refusing to obey the silent command in his stare.

Sirr slowly unsheathes his blade. The metal catches the flickering torchlight, its edge glinting with deadly purpose. Time feels as though it slows, each breath drawn shallow and quiet.

“What a pretty pity,” he murmurs, voice like silk drawn over steel. “All that fire, wasted on what’s already mine to take.”

Then, in a flash, the tension shatters. Sirr moves with brutal precision, his blade cutting through the air. James doesn’t flinch, doesn’t struggle—he meets his fate with a quiet, unwavering defiance, his eyes burning with the last embers of resistance—a last act of rebellion that sears itself into my memory like a brand.

A spray of crimson, stark and vivid, is followed by the sickening sound of air escaping from James’ severed throat.

He falls forward, his hand instinctively reaching for his neck, but it’s futile. Blood pours from the wound, pooling beneath him as he falls forward, his body crumpling in a lifeless heap.

Stop!

The word claws at the back of my throat, desperate to escape, but I bite it down, my fists clenched so tightly they tremble. Callan grips his blade, his whole body taut like a coiled spring, ready to explode.

Ellen’s scream cuts through the night, raw and anguished, a sound that doesn’t just echo—it scars. She lunges toward her husband’s fallen form, but the man holding her yanks her back by her hair, forcing her to her knees.

“Ellen Sinclair,” Sirr muses coldly, as if savouring the moment. He takes a step toward her, the blade dripping with James’ blood. “You’ve always had a firm voice. Let’s hear it now.”