Chapter 4 - The Vengeance of the Past
I stayed. Not for the money, and certainly not out of fear of Weston Hargrove. I stayed because of Mary, who threw her arms around my waist so hard the morning I told her I was staying that she nearly knocked me over, and because of Midnight, who whinnied a deep, rumbling greeting every time I walked past his stall.
For two weeks, life on the estate settled into an uneasy, electric rhythm. Weston and I maintained a professional distance, though I caught him watching me from his study window more than once. He began joining us during Mary’s evening reading sessions, sitting quietly in the corner armchair, reading Forbes while I read children’s fables.
But peace in the Hargrove household was always a fragile illusion.
It happened on a rainy Friday evening. Weston was away in Boston meeting with regional syndicates, and Tristan was managing the estate security. I had just put Mary to sleep and was walking down the grand staircase when I heard the shouting from the front foyer.
Glass shattered. Heavy boots slammed against the marble floor.
I froze halfway down the stairs, peering over the wrought-iron banister. Three strange men stood in the lobby, holding iron pipes and shouting at the estate guards they had overpowered. Leading them was a scarred, menacing man with cold dead eyes—Victor Vance, my estranged, criminal uncle.
“Where is Hargrove’s little pet?” Victor roared, grabbing a terrified housemaid by the arm. “Tell Clara to come out before I burn this entire mansion to the ground!”
My blood ran ice cold. They had tracked me through my father’s old associates. They knew I was here, and they intended to use me to blackmail Weston into handing over control of the regional shipping ports.
Before the guards could recover, I stepped out from the shadows of the landing.
“Let her go, Victor,” I called out, my voice ringing clear and steady through the cavernous foyer.
Victor turned, a vile grin splitting his scarred face. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite niece. Come down here, Clara. Your uncle wants to catch up.”
“You touch her and I’ll feed you to the hounds,” a voice echoed from the front doors.
We all spun around.
Weston stood in the open doorway, flanked by a dozen armed men. He hadn't been in Boston. He had received word of a bounty on my head hours ago and had raced back through the storm, his overcoat soaked with rain, his face carved from pure, unadulterated fury.
Victor laughed, pulling a silver pistol from his waistband and pressing the barrel against the housemaid’s temple. “Drop your weapons, Hargrove! One move and the girl dies!”
The security guards hesitated, looking at Weston for the order. Tristan raised his weapon, but Victor cocked his pistol.
“Do it,” Victor sneered. “Drop the guns!”
In that split second, a deafening sound echoed from the stables behind the estate—a sharp, violent crash of splintering oak and heavy iron.
Before anyone could react, the massive courtyard doors burst open.
Thundering hooves shook the earth.
Before the guards or Victor’s men could turn around, a massive black shadow charged directly into the front foyer. It was Midnight. He had somehow broken out of his reinforced stall, driven by the chaos and his fierce, protective bond with the people who fed him.
The stallion reared up on his hind legs right in the center of the marble lobby, his eyes flashing white, letting out a terrifying, high-pitched scream that echoed off the crystal chandeliers.
Victor shrieked in absolute terror, his grip slipping from the housemaid.
The maid scrambled away. In a flash of motion, Weston drew his sidearm and fired a warning shot straight into the ceiling, while Tristan and the guards swarmed Victor’s men, tackling them to the floor in seconds.
Midnight paced furiously, snorting smoke and foam, before spotting me standing on the stairs. He lowered his head, trotting over until he stood directly beneath the landing, acting as a living shield between me and the fallen thugs.
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Weston walked slowly through the chaos, stepping past the handcuffed men, his eyes fixed entirely on me. When he reached the stairs, he didn't look at the horse. He looked at me, his chest heaving, his hands trembling slightly as he realized how close he had come to losing me.
Without saying a word, Weston reached up, took my hand, and pulled me down into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest in front of every armed man on the estate.
