Chapter 3

The guards shoved Holden violently through the massive double doors. He stumbled onto the imported Persian rug but caught his balance instantly, his cold eyes sweeping over the core members of the Sterling family seated on the leather sofas.

Cordelia stormed in behind him. She hurled the crushed remains of the camera onto the solid mahogany coffee table. The metal clattered loudly against the wood.

Alistair, the family patriarch, leaned heavily on a gold-lion-headed cane. His bushy eyebrows pulled together as he stared at the debris, his raspy voice demanding an explanation.

Cordelia's chest heaved. She pointed at Holden, her voice shaking with rage as she accused him of being a filthy degenerate who took up-skirt photos of her in the garden.

Her father, Warren, shot up from his armchair. His face turned purple as he screamed at the security detail, calling them useless trash for letting a rat into the estate.

Holden ignored Warren's spit-flying rant. His eyes locked onto Alistair. Even with his vision slightly blurred from the genetic backlash, his battlefield-honed observation picked up the old man's shallow, rapid breathing and the faint bluish tint spreading across his lips.

Beatrice, Cordelia's mother, pressed a silk handkerchief over her nose. She dragged her eyes over Holden's oil-stained jeans, looking at him as if his very existence was contaminating the oxygen in the room.

Alistair slammed his cane into the floor. The heavy thud silenced the room. He glared at Holden, his gaze a mix of scrutiny and a barely perceptible confusion, demanding his name and his purpose for "trespassing into my estate."

Holden let out a dry, mocking laugh. Ignoring the gun muzzle pressed against his back, his right hand reached for his back pocket and pulled out the yellowed parchment scroll.

He tossed it onto the coffee table. The scroll unrolled across the polished wood, coming to a stop to reveal a heavy, dark red wax seal at the bottom.

The moment Alistair saw the seal, his pupils contracted violently. His gnarled, trembling fingers reached out, brushing the frayed edge of the parchment.

Warren leaned over to look. The color drained from his face. He stammered, reading aloud the terms of a marriage contract forged twenty years ago.

Cordelia looked like she had been struck by lightning. Her eyes went wide with horror. She screamed that she would rather die than marry a bottom-feeding pervert.

Holden shrugged. His tone was laced with heavy sarcasm as he stated he had zero interest in a spoiled princess, offering to tear the contract up right then and there.

The instant his words hung in the air, Holden's sharp senses caught it: The rhythmic pumping of blood in the old man's chest hit a sudden, catastrophic blockage.

Alistair clutched his chest. His mouth opened in a silent scream before his eyes rolled back, and his rigid body collapsed backward onto the sofa.

The grand hall erupted into chaos. Beatrice let out a blood-curdling shriek. Warren scrambled over the table, grabbing his father's shoulders.

Cordelia dropped to her knees. Her face was as white as paper. She gripped Alistair's freezing hand, screaming for her grandfather.

The head butler sprinted for the wall phone, barking frantically for Dr. Vance, the estate's resident physician.

Holden didn't move a muscle. He stood perfectly still, fighting through the dizziness of his unstable genetics, his brain running a rapid diagnostic on the old man's fading vitals.

Warren snatched a gun from one of the guards. His hands shook violently as he aimed it at Holden's chest, screaming at him to back away from the body.

"Shoot, and he dies," Holden said. His voice was a low, terrifying rumble that carried a physical weight. The sheer, suffocating killing intent in the room froze Warren's finger on the trigger.

Taking advantage of their paralysis, Holden's hands moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed the ruined edges of Alistair's shirt and ripped it completely open.

His eyes locked onto a jagged, faded scar running across the old man's sternum. He pinpointed the exact location of the clot. His focus narrowed to a razor's edge.

Cordelia shrieked, sobbing hysterically as she called him a murderer, struggling to get up from the chair.

Holden tuned out the noise. He extended his left index and middle fingers, locking them together like a steel spike. He drove his fingers hard into three specific nerve clusters along Alistair's spine with a brutal, rhythmic pressure. It was an extreme acupressure technique utilized by desperate combat medics in the trenches, designed to forcefully shock the central nervous system and trigger a violent biological reboot.

Alistair's body convulsed. He arched off the sofa like a fish pulled from water, a horrifying, wet rattling sound tearing from his throat.

"What have you done to him?!" Warren snapped completely, his judgment obliterated by fear and rage. He pulled the trigger. The bullet whistled past Holden's ear and shattered the massive crystal chandelier above them.

A torrential rain of razor-sharp glass rained down. Holden threw his broad shoulders over Alistair, letting the heavy shards slice through his cheap jacket and bite into his back.

Alistair slumped back against the pillows. His breathing was heavy, but his eyes locked onto Holden with a burning, fanatical reverence.

The old man raised a shaking hand, signaling the butler to help him sit up. His piercing gaze swept over his family, preparing to hand down an absolute mandate.