Page 39 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

Two against one.

“Fine,” I hear myself say. “But let’s go on Friday. And I reserve the right to leave early if I’m not feeling it.”

Finn’s face splits into a grin. “Deal.”

I lean back and let the fire’s warmth settle into my chest. Across from me, Finn is already looking more relaxed, some of the strange tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Ethan picks up his book again, though I notice he’s watching both of us over the top of the pages.

My mind drifts back to Sophie. Those empty eyes. That hollow gaze.

What happened to her? What could possibly carve someone out so completely?

“I have a feeling,” I say quietly, almost to myself, “that this investigation won’t take as long as you think.”

Finn looks up. “What makes you say that?”

I don’t answer. I just stare into the fire and think about dead eyes and what it takes to hollow someone out like that.

Whatever Sophie is, whatever made her this way, it’s turned her into exactly what we need.

A weapon.

I just hope she doesn’t end up pointed at us.

I’m up before dawn.

An old habit from a time when my father used to drag me out of bed at five every morning, rain or shine, to review the day’s schedule before breakfast. Discipline builds empires, he’d say, his cold green eyes, so like mine, sweeping over me for any sign of weakness. Laziness destroys them.

The one lesson of his I kept.

The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of dew-damp grass and something floral. Mist clings to the low places, burning off slowly as the sun crests the treeline.

I take my time. It’s early enough that no one needs anything from me yet, and I intend to make the most of it.

The main building emerges from the mist ahead of me, its windows already bright with the morning light.

My father would have hated it. He’s been dead for twelve years, but somehow I always think of that when I make this walk.

I remember walking this same path as a child. Eight years old, maybe nine. The manor loomed where Synthera stands now, dark and imposing, casting long shadows across the grounds even at midday. My father strode ahead of me, his pace punishing, never slowing to let me catch up.

Keep up, Maxwell. A Cavill doesn’t lag behind.

I was practically running, my short legs burning with the effort.

There was a man waiting for us around the side of the building. I don’t remember his name, only his face, pale, sweating, terrified. He was on his knees in the dirt, two of my father’s security guards flanking him.

This is what happens to people who steal from me, my father said, his voice calm, almost conversational. Watch closely, son. You need to learn.

I watched. I didn’t have a choice.

The man’s screams stayed with me for weeks. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, hearing them echo off the walls of my bedroom. When I told my mother, she held me close and stroked my hair and said nothing at all.

She knew. She always knew. And she was just as trapped as I was.

“Mr. Cavill! Good morning!”

Roberto’s voice cuts through the memory. I blink, and I’m back in the present, standing in the garden, the mist swirling around my ankles, the glass building gleaming ahead.

Roberto is kneeling by one of the rose beds, his weathered hands buried in the soil, moving with the easy grace of a man half his age.