Chapter 3 The Red Mark
It had been three weeks since the night at the bar, and now Jaxon was a married man. The wedding had not been a happy one. There were no flowers, no music, and no friends. It was just a fast trip to a cold office and a few papers to sign. Now, they were back at the Sterling mansion. Rain hit the windows in a steady rhythm, making the big house feel even more empty.
They stood in the main hall. A few of the house staff were lined up, watching them with curious eyes. Delphine stood tall, her chin held high. She looked at Jaxon like he was something she had found on the bottom of her shoe.
"Listen well," Delphine said, her voice loud enough for every servant to hear. "This is Mylo. He is my husband, but that is only a word on a paper. He is not to be treated like a master of this house."
Jaxon stood with his head down. He held a small bag of clothes and a box of old paints. He looked tired and small.
"Where should I put my things, Delphine?" he asked softly.
"You won't be staying in my wing," she said, a cruel smile touching her lips. "The guest rooms are for people who matter. You can take the small room at the end of the hall, near the kitchens. It’s close to the servants, which should make you feel right at home. Now, get out of my sight. I have a headache."
Jaxon didn't argue. He didn't even look angry. He just nodded and walked away. One of the maids let out a little laugh as he passed. He ignored it. He walked down the long, dim hallway until he reached a tiny room. It was cold and smelled like old dust. There was a single bed and a small desk.
He shut the door and sat on the bed. He waited. He listened to the sounds of the house dying down. The heavy footsteps of the guards outside, the clicking of locks, and finally, the silence of a house at sleep.
Once it was quiet, the man named Mylo disappeared. Jaxon stood up and reached under the bed. He pulled out a black bag. He changed his clothes quickly, putting on a dark jacket and a mask that covered his face. He moved to the window and opened it without making a sound. He slipped out into the rain.
He moved through the gardens like a shadow. He knew where the cameras were. He knew when the guards turned their heads. He reached a thick group of trees near the back wall. A man was waiting there.
"Report," Jaxon said. His voice was no longer soft. It was the voice of Hades.
"It’s done," the man whispered. "Dorian Crane is dead. We made it look like he took too many pills in a locked room. We left the note you wrote. The police are already there."
"Good," Jaxon said. "Now we wait for the families to start blaming each other."
Suddenly, a twig snapped behind them. Jaxon didn't turn around slowly, he moved faster than anyone could blink. A guard—a young man in a Crane family uniform who shouldn't have been on this side of the wall—was standing there. The guard’s eyes went wide as he saw the masked man. He reached for his radio.
Jaxon was on him before he could make a sound. He didn't use a gun. He used his hands. He grabbed the man’s throat and slammed him against a tree. The guard kicked and struggled, trying to pull Jaxon’s hands away. Jaxon didn't let go. He watched the man’s eyes until they went dull and his body went limp. It was fast. It was quiet. It was brutal.
Jaxon let the body slide to the ground. He looked at his hands. They were shaking just a little, but not from fear. It was from the rush of finally pushing back.
"Clean this up," Jaxon told his contact. "Make it look like he tripped and hit his head on the wall. Move fast."
Jaxon turned and ran back toward the house. He climbed through the window of his small room and shut it. He was wet and his heart was thumping. He felt a deep, heavy tiredness in his bones. He just wanted to sleep.
He walked toward the light switch near the door, ready to take off his wet jacket. He reached out his hand, but before he could touch the switch, a hand slammed against the door from the inside.
The light flickered on.
Delphine was standing there. She was wearing a long, white robe. Her hair was down, and her eyes were wide and filled with a sharp, mean light. She looked like she had been waiting in the dark for a long time.
"You were gone, Mylo," she said. Her voice was a low whisper. "I came here to tell you more rules, but the bed was empty. Where does a little painter go on a night like this?"
Jaxon froze. He hadn't had time to change back. He was still in his dark gear, though he had pulled the mask off and tucked it into his pocket. He tried to make his face look scared.
"I... I couldn't sleep," he stammered. "The room was too small. I went for a walk in the garden to get some air."
Delphine didn't look like she believed him. She stepped closer. She was so close he could feel the heat coming off her body. She looked him up and down, her eyes stopping on his arm.
"You're soaking wet," she said. She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Her grip was tight. "And you're shaking. Why are you shaking, Mylo?"
"It's just the cold, Delphine. Please, let me go."
She didn't let go. She pulled his hand up, turning his palm toward the light. Her breath caught in her throat.
A thick, dark smear was drying against his skin. it was deep red and had a metallic smell that filled the small space between them. It wasn't paint. It was too dark, too real.
Delphine looked at the red smear, then she looked up into his eyes. Her face changed. She leaned in, confusion written all over her face.
"Is that paint, Mylo?" She said.
