Death's Finest Hour

Chapter Fifty-Seven

This isn't real.

Ronan felt like he'd been punched in his chest as he stared at the lifeless corpse of his mother. At her lifeless green eyes. At her skin that had already turned a sickly, ashen pale.

She was dead. End of story. And this was war.

People died all the time in war.

This was normal.

He should've expected it.

He should've turned away.

He should've lifted his head.

He should've kept going. Kept fighting—because that was what was important right now.

But he couldn't.

Fuck, he couldn't.

He sunk to his knees in the dirt, hands hovering over his mother's body.

This can't be real.

She'd been there for him through thick and thin, from the very start. She was there through his fuck ups, holding out hope that he could get better. Even as he disappointed her at every turn, she still held out faith. She was always there for him. Always believing he could be someone worth giving a damn about.

And now here she was—one of the softest witches alive, reduced to nothing.

Had she ever actually killed someone? Had she ever raised a finger to do any wrong?

She'd been peaceful, loving.

And now—

And now...

She'd spent hundreds of years alone—but before that. She'd always been soft. Always been patient.

She'd always wanted the best for her children. She'd always wanted them to be something, even as they'd given her nothing to be proud of. Even as they'd made her life as a parent hell.

And now she was cold.

Can't breathe—

Ronan clawed at his own throat.

His mother was dead.

He thought she was going to go for Rosa. The most obvious choice when it came to him. She'd tried it before. He had precautions in place to protect his wife—but his mother. Ronan wailed in agony, ripping at his chest.

He hadn't expected it. Hadn't thought Nadine could sink that low.

His mother was dead, and now Nadine would pay.

No more fucking around.

It had been a long time coming, and now Ronan would kill the bitch.

He ran for her with a battle cry, cloak whipping around him. Nadine hadn't expected him up so soon. The bitch had the good sense to look afraid.

She hobbled backwards, looking for one of the Gods, looking for someone—anyone—who would protect her from her brother's rage.

She'd always had a penchant for getting away. Like a rat, worming herself out of dire situations.

Ronan had plans in place—intricate plans that had been years in the making—for this moment. But none of that mattered.

All that mattered was death. Killing her. Forcing her to rot.

The dragon turned its mighty head their way, roaring as hellfire spilled from its snout. Ronan slid beneath it, fist jabbing out with his knife.

A leg stopped him, a boot stomping hard on his wrist.