𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.
It's the beginning of a new age when Jaylah Imperatrix seemingly returns from the dead to reclaim her throne. And in perfect timing.
In her absence, evil has be...
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Act 3 Chapter 62 JAYLAH
As was becoming a pattern, I had no clue where we were headed. Well, none aside from the playing card Razkoff pressed into Alexander's hand. The thought that they were related in any way still had me reeling. I never would have guessed. I could not shake the echoes of Alexander's cruelty, seething with hurt just below the surface. Those were the words of an abandoned child.
It was jarring, to say the least. I was sure that out of the two of us, I was the one harboring the most concerning inner turmoil. And while I knew Alexander had survived unspeakable events, he always seemed so...unbothered. Like nothing, not even the worst of humanity, could faze him.
He was, I noticed, hardly ever completely serious—even in dire situations, there was an ever-present twist to his lips. It was nearly frightening how well he kept himself composed. I suspected showing anything other than a false outer layer of flippant frivolousness was revealing too much at whatever lay beneath. Did he do it as a mercenary's tactic or to hide away any opportunity for me to stab him in the back?
Regardless of the answer, the point still stood: all the vulnerable things I knew about him, I learned by accident.
I wanted to know where he was taking us and why he wore that strange expression, some mix between salvation and childlike fear. But if I asked, he would not tell me. So for the first time...ever, really, I trusted him enough to not pry.
We were in a quieter place, at least as quiet as this city could be, when Alexander stopped to check the road sign. It seemed to be his location. He went up the front walk and breezed past the nearly potted trees and decorative lanterns to slam his fist onto the door. There was nothing smooth or calculating about him anymore. This was something worse.
A woman with her hair set in curls opened the door, annoyed. "What is it, you—"
She did not get any further. Alexander shoved her back as if she weighed nothing and stepped into her house. Mystified, I followed. If nothing else, I was drawn to violence. The door swung shut, sealing us in with the woman's husband, a stout fellow, who came barreling into the foyer.
He did not have the chance to utter a single one of the curses written on his face before Alexander had his hands wrapped around the man's pudgy throat. The wife screamed as Alexander forced the older man backward until his head cracked against a square stone column with a dull thud. My brows raised.
As the man shouted gibberish, anything to get him to stop, Alexander spat, "You dirty fucking bastard, where are they?" He shook him for good measure. "Where are the slaves you bought?"
"I don't—"
"You know exactly what I mean." Alexander's fingers dug in, creating stark indents in the man's flesh. "Don't play stupid with me. They were illegally transporting war slaves from Oceana just after the war ended and you bought a few like they were cattle. Where are they?"
