Chapter 46: Thane

Chapter

Forty-Six

THANE

I walk at my brother's side through the hail of bullets with deadly purpose. Hot lead whizzes past my head, but I barely register it anymore.

We've cut through so many soldiers tonight—men I helped train, even faces I recognize behind their tactical masks—that the violence has become almost meditative.

The weight of it settles in my chest, but it's not quite guilt. Not exactly. I would gladly paint my hands red with the blood of every soldier in Reinmich if it meant keeping Ivy safe.

If it meant giving her the future she deserves.

Wraith's massive frame moves beside me with fluid grace as we advance. A soldier pops up from behind a barricade and my brother's massive hand shoots out, catching him by the throat. There's a sickening crack as Wraith snaps his neck with casual efficiency.

It doesn't affect him anymore, either.

At least, I don't think it does.

I put two rounds through another soldier trying to flank us. The body drops with a wet thud, adding to the growing pile of corpses we've left in our wake.

We've checked every other location our father might have retreated to.

The military command center.

The underground bunker.

The Council's safe houses.

But deep down, I knew we'd end up here.

The Hargrove estate looms ahead, its imposing architecture a stark reminder of everything we left behind. Nikolai's forces have already surrounded the grounds, their weapons trained on every exit. They part like water as we approach, giving us a wide berth. Even these hardened mercenaries seem to sense the gravity of what's about to happen.

"He's in there," remarks a surly alpha. With her leather trenchcoat and riot gear, she looks more like she'd be at home in an underground fight club than in a warzone. The fact that her coat is more red than black now with the blood dripping off it is proof enough it hasn't hindered her performance. The once brown-and-black fur of the lanky shepherd mix at her side is nearly as painted, its keen brown eyes tracking us warily as we approach.

"Thanks," I mutter, nodding to her as her men pull open the iron gates to let us through.

She takes a drag off her cigarette and then crushes the rest beneath her steel-toed boot. Her lips curl into a smirk that's slightly lopsided by the jagged scars running from the corners of her mouth to her ears. She's Nikolai's right-hand man— woman —so I guess that checks out.

"Careful in there, boys," she drawls in a raspy voice, leaning down to pat the side of the dog standing faithfully at her feet. "Ol' Bess here lit up like a Christmas tree when we scanned the perimeter, and she's got a taste for gunpowder, if you know what I mean."

I look up at the mansion with a curt nod. Of course our father wouldn't go down without making his last stand.

And it's sure to be a grand one.

We pass through the gate and stop for a moment at the base of the marble steps, staring up at the house where Wraith and I spent our childhood. If you could call it that. The place where our father's coldness shaped us into the weapons he wanted us to be.

The memories hit me all at once.

Endless training sessions.

Brutal punishments.

The constant pressure to be perfect.

To be worthy of the Hargrove name.

And now we're going to tear it all down.

Wraith's soft growl draws my attention. When I look at him, I see the same memories reflected in his intense blue eyes. The pain. The way our father stood by and watched it all, treating his own sons like assets to be weaponized. But there's something else in his gaze I can't find anywhere in myself, no matter how hard I search.

Remorse.

Understanding passes between us without words.

We both know what needs to be done.

I give him a sharp nod, which he returns. Then we move as one, ascending the steps to enter hell.

The massive oak doors aren't even locked. Our father's arrogance, even now, is staggering. The foyer is empty, our boots echoing on the marble floor as we enter. Everything looks exactly as I remember it. The crystal chandelier, the family portraits lining the walls, the fresh-cut flowers in their expensive vases.

Generation upon generation of Hargroves look down on us in judgment—all male alphas, of course—as we pass through. It's like stepping back in time. But we're not the same broken children who once walked these halls.

We're not here for redemption or reconciliation.

We're here to end this.

And I know exactly where he'll be.

The same study he practically lived in throughout our childhood, hiding behind mountains of paperwork and military strategy instead of being a father to his sons.

Wraith follows me through the silent house, both of us checking corners out of habit even though we know we won't find any guards in here. Our father always preferred to handle things personally.

I grab Wraith's shoulder just as he starts toward the stairs, pulling him back. Something doesn't feel right. Our father is many things, but careless isn't one of them.

Time to test my theory.

One of the heavy brass bookends on a nearby shelf stands out to me. A bust of our grandfather. I decide to test my theory. The metallic thud as it hits the third step is immediately followed by a deafening explosion. I yank Wraith behind a marble column as chunks of wood and plaster rain down around us.

My brother should have noticed that. Predicted it. And the fact that he didn't tells me exactly how shaken he is by what we're about to do.

Not that I can blame him.

This isn't just another mission.

This is patricide.

And to be fair, I'm the only one with this cursed bloodline running through my veins. A father trying to kill his children isn't something I have to wrap my head around. It's an easy assumption.

When the dust settles, I peer around the column to assess the damage. The stairs are partially destroyed, but there's enough left intact to proceed.

Still, the message is clear.

Our father isn't going down without a fight.

Wraith moves to take point, but freezes. His sharp eyes catch what I almost missed this time. A thin wire stretched across the remaining steps, barely visible in the dim light.

Another trap.

Like a series of deadly puzzles laid out by a paranoid old man.

Then again, is it really paranoia when someone actually is coming to kill you?

I watch as Wraith carefully disarms the tripwire, his hands surprisingly delicate as he works. The skills our father drilled into us being used against him. There's a certain poetry to it. As he works, the faint sounds of music—always easygoing jazz—filters through the hallway from a phonograph.

And I know exactly how long that particular record is.

Our father used to like to put it on in his study before dinner so we knew how long we had to be on perfect behavior. Wraith tenses next to me, and I know he's hearing the same thing. Know he's having flashbacks to those stressful nights, wishing he was anywhere else as he withered under our father's stern gaze, trying in vain to eat with good manners despite his jaws.

He always wanted to please our father.

Always wanted to be accepted.

The thought makes my throat even tighter.

We find three more traps as we ascend. A pressure plate, another tripwire, and what looks like a makeshift claymore rigged to the banister. The soldier outside wasn't kidding.

We dismantle each one with deliberate noise.

I want him to hear us coming.

Want him to know that we're taking down his carefully laid defenses one by one.

The heavy oak door to his study looms before us at the end of the hall. Two bronze lion's head door knockers stare at us with empty yet baleful eyes, their jaws slightly slack around the rings hanging from their teeth. Light spills from beneath the door, along with the faint smell of expensive cigars and that damn song I always hated most.

Some things never change.

Wraith looks at me, those intense blue eyes asking a silent question. Are we really doing this?

I nod firmly.

There's no turning back now.

My brother tenses beside me as we approach the study. Neither of us bothers to move quietly anymore. Let him hear our filthy boots on his manicured carpets. Let him know death is coming for him, wrapped in the flesh of his own blood.

He should have known this day would come. But our father never was good at seeing his sons as anything more than tools to be used.

That ends tonight.

I pause outside the study door, memories washing over me. How many times did I stand in this exact spot as a boy, gathering courage to face his disappointment? How many times did Wraith and I huddle here, nursing fresh bruises from another training session gone too far?

But we're not kids anymore.

We're not afraid anymore.

We have something worth dying for.

Worth killing for.

The thought of Ivy steels my resolve. This isn't just about revenge or justice. It's about making sure she—and every omega like her—never has to live in fear again. The system our father helped build and maintain has to fall.

Starting with him.

I pull my tactical shotgun off my back, nodding to Wraith. We kick in the door together, the heavy reinforced oak splintering under our combined force. Jazz music blooms into the hallway, an eerie soundtrack for what's about to unfold.

I'm expecting another bloodbath, more traps, a final violent stand. But General Hargrove is simply sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, smoking one of his expensive cigars. He's wearing his uniform, his medals shining in the low light from his desk lamp, and he looks like a king on his throne. Calm and regal, rather than a man about to face execution.

He has our grandfather's revolver, too. The glint of the silver barrel catches my eye. The gun is sitting on his desk, close enough for him to reach it easily. But he isn't making any motion to grab it. Not even the twitch of a finger.

"I thought you'd have gotten here sooner," he says with a derisive scoff, smoke curling from his lips.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Critical even now?"

"Old habits," he replies simply, taking the cigar into his fingers and studying the glowing end.

His demeanor is setting me on edge. It's as if he's not only expecting to die today, he's looking forward to it. Welcoming death with open arms like an old friend. Why else would he be wearing his uniform? Were all those traps just meant to let him know where we were in the mansion?

He's never been afraid to die.

The only thing he fears is shame.

"We wanted to save the best for last," I say, keeping my shotgun trained on his chest as Wraith moves to flank him. The jazz continues to play from the phonograph across the room, the gentle melody a stark contrast to the tension crackling in the air.

Our father gives a dry chuckle and carefully puts out his cigar in the crystal ashtray. "And I suppose you think you've won?" he asks, his voice carrying that familiar condescending tone that used to make me flinch. "That Reinmich will have some glorious future under your leadership?"

"I have no interest in leading," I reply dryly. "But it can't be worse than it is now."

He looks up at me then, really looks at me, maybe for the first time in my life. His cold eyes study my face like he's trying to memorize it. Or maybe he's just now seeing me as a man instead of a disappointing child.

"You really believe that?" he asks, leaning back in his leather chair. "You think dismantling everything we've built will make the world better? More stable?"

"More stable for who?" I demand, my finger tightening on the trigger. "The alphas? The Council? What about everyone else who has to live under your tyranny?"

"Order requires sacrifice," he says simply, as if explaining something to a child. "Structure demands?—"

"Spare me the rhetoric," I cut him off. "I've heard it all before. But you know what I haven't heard?" I take a step closer, my voice dropping dangerously. "An apology. For what you did to us. To Wraith ."

My father's eyes drift to where my brother looms in the shadows, his scarred face hidden behind his mask. "Apologize?" he echoes, as if he's mulling over the word. Like it's the first time he's ever even considered it. "To that thing?"

I bristle at his words, cocking my shotgun, but before I can respond, the general rises to his feet and I prepare myself for him to reach for the gun on his desk. When he doesn't, I watch as my father's lips curve into that familiar cruel smile.

"An apology," he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. "As a matter of fact, I will apologize... for not putting it down when I had the chance."

Wraith flinches and his blue eyes flash with pain.

"I thought it would be useful," our father continues, each word chosen precisely to inflict maximum damage. "A weapon to challenge you, to make you stronger. But in the end..." He waves his hand dismissively at Wraith. "Just another failed experiment."

My finger tightens on the trigger. "Shut up."

But he's not done. That cold blue gaze locks onto my eyes with laser focus. "But you..." he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. " You are my greatest disappointment."

A laugh bubbles up from my chest before I can stop it. "That's the kindest thing you've ever said to me," I tell him, and I mean it. "Because it means I became everything you're not."

Anger and pride spark in his eyes at the same time. But before I can process it, his hand goes to one of the medals on his chest, his fingertips brushing against the embossed eagle.

"Then die knowing you failed," he snarls, pressing a hidden button.

The explosion rocks the study, sending us all flying. Books rain down from the shelves as smoke fills the air. My ears ring from the blast, but as I haul myself out of the twisted rubble, all I can think about is my brother.

When the smoke starts to clear, I spot him. He's got our father pinned against what's left of the desk, growling low in his chest, that massive hand wrapped around our father’s throat. Against all odds, the phonograph keeps playing, the soft jazz music warped and disjointed from the heat as the peak of the final song stutters on repeat.

But something's wrong.

Wraith's hand is trembling.

"Can't do it, can you?" our father wheezes out, that cruel smile still playing on his lips even as Wraith's grip tightens enough to turn his face crimson. "Still the pathetic, useless little whelp I found in the woods." He gives a bitter laugh that dries into a hacking cough, but the venom in his voice doesn't waver. "A monster with a conscience. Imagine that."

I watch the conflict play out in my brother's eyes.

The hurt.

The rage.

"Wraith," I call out softly, stepping closer through the settling debris as I pick up my shotgun from where it landed by what's left of the wall. I don't take my eyes off them for a second. "Let go."

His blue eyes meet mine, and I see the silent plea there. He doesn't want to be the monster our father tried to make him into. Doesn't want to prove him right. Or maybe there's some part of him that still loves the man he so desperately wanted to be a father.

That makes one of us.

I watch my father's eyes flash with that familiar cruel light as he stares up at Wraith. Even with my brother's hand around his throat, he manages to twist his lips into that mocking sneer I remember from childhood.

"Do it," he rasps, his voice rough but still dripping with disdain. "Do it, you fucking useless beast!"

The words echo through the smoke-filled study. Even now, our father is spitting into the face of death to try to force my brother to do what he wants. To be what he wants. But it isn't working. Wraith's massive shoulders are trembling, his grip loosening slightly.

He can't do it.

And he shouldn't have to.

He isn't a monster like me.

"Let go!" I yell to Wraith, and he does, just in time.

The shotgun blast is deafening in the enclosed space. Blood and brain matter paint the remaining books on the shelves behind what used to be our father's head. Somehow, I think the headless stump of our father's neck will be a more pleasant memory than that cruel smile.

Wraith staggers back, blood spattering his mask and tactical gear. His blue eyes are wide with shock as he looks from our father's corpse to me. The confusion in his gaze makes my chest tight.

I lower the smoking shotgun slowly, my voice coming out softer than I expect. "I meant what I said before."

Wraith just stares at me, still frozen in place. Blood drips from him onto the expensive carpet as the final song on the record drags on, the warped notes ghostly as they fill the strangely quiet room.

I close the distance between us, holstering my shotgun on my back and placing my hand on Wraith's shoulder. "You didn't choose any of this," I tell him firmly. "And it wasn't your place to finish it. No more killing. You're done."

Understanding dawns in Wraith's eyes, followed by something else. Something that makes my throat tight. Before I can process what's happening, he pulls me into a crushing embrace.

His arms are like steel bands around me, squeezing so tight I can barely breathe. But I don't care. I wrap my own arms around him, returning the hug with equal force. We've never done this before. Never allowed ourselves this kind of vulnerability with each other.

It's hard to breathe, but it's... nice.

Kind of find myself hoping the old man's ghost is lingering around long enough to have a shit fit about it.

"Come on, brother," I say, finally pulling away. "Let's go get our girl."