Chapter 4 - THE ARCHITECT OF STORMS
The father stopped two feet away from his son-in-law.
He didn't yell.
He didn't make a theatrical gesture.
He simply raised his right hand and adjusted the gold cuffs of his pristine white shirt.
Then, his gaze flicked down to the torn fabric near his daughter's chest.
He saw the raw, bruised skin.
He saw the tiny droplet of dried blood at the corner of her lip.
A muscle ticked violently along the sharp line of his jaw.
He reached out.
His hand did not touch his daughter.
Instead, his massive, calloused fingers shot forward with terrifying speed.
They clamped down directly over the silk lapel of the young man’s black suit.
He twisted his wrist, gathering the fabric into a tight, inescapable knot.
He yanked upward with a force that lifted the young man completely off his heels.
The husband choked out a strangled, high-pitched gasp, his feet dangling six inches above the polished wood.
The silver-haired father stepped into his personal space, bringing his face inches from the terrified boy's nose.
The father’s voice was a low, seismic rumble that vibrated in the marrow of everyone's bones.
"My daughter, pack your things."
The words were calm.
They were colder than liquid nitrogen.
The young husband clawed frantically at the father’s wrist, his fingers slipping uselessly against the expensive wool of the suit sleeve.
His face turned a mottled, suffocating shade of purple.
The father slowly turned his head, shifting his glare from the choking husband to the elderly woman frozen halfway up the grand staircase.
The old woman’s hand gripped the wooden banister so tightly her knuckles turned translucent.
She opened her mouth to speak, to invoke her name, her status, her lineage.
No sound came out.
The father brought his face back to the young man dangling from his fist.
His eyes narrowed into two deadly slits of grey ice.
"You will pay for this."
May you like
The promise hung in the air, heavy and absolute as a falling guillotine.
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