Rebekah had seen Duke Clyde Slate before. In years prior, he would pass through each city he protected, often stopping to speak with people and make conversation. It had been several years since she’d seen the Duke, and she’d grown of age, married, had a child and lost a child in that time.

  Being told the Duke of Hysted was the one who killed her child was a hard truth to swallow, but one that came from the only person she’d found thus far with any knowledge on the killings. If the adventurer was no longer the hero he’d always appeared to be, she knew damn well she had it in her to kill the man. Whatever morals had ruled her life before had grown quiet from the moment she found her child’s bed missing, dying away to nothing but a murmur in the back of her mind as she followed Harrison to the Duke’s house.

  But seeing him open the door to his mansion with a child in his arms brought every human decency screaming to the surface once more.

  Her grip on the crossbow faltered, finger slipping away from the trigger. A pair of huge round eyes stared at her, innocence shining like stars, the girl’s hands curled into the loose fabric of the Duke’s top.

  Harrison lunged at the man with his knife.

  Clyde Slate lurched backward, slamming the door on Harrison. It shut against his arm and bounced open as Harrison growled and followed the man inside, making noises like a rabid animal.

  He has a daughter, her mind protested, latching onto the sound as the child began to cry. It twisted into her gut like a knife, each wail a stabbing pain.

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  He killed my son, she fired back at the thought, and surged inside.

  She raised her crossbow to eye level and stared down the length, tracking the Duke. He’d dropped his daughter, shoving her behind him as he drew his sword, forcing distance between himself and Harrison.

  With a sharp inhale, Rebekah brought her finger to the trigger and plunged it down.

  Air whistled as the bolt exploded from the shaft of the crossbow, wound so tight it pierced through the Duke’s shoulder and out the other side with a splatter of blood.

  The little girl screamed, red splattered across her face and white dress.

  Rebekah’s stomach dropped, bile rising up in the back of her throat. What am I doing?

  “Stop,” Clyde gasped, dropping his sword to press a hand to his shoulder, stemming the tide of blood. “Why are you doing this?”

  Harrison stilled, unnaturally so in the quiet room. A chill went straight to her bones as Rebekah watched him, gripping a crossbow she couldn’t load. Sweat pooled across her palms, growing cold in the stillness of the room as everyone waited for Harrison to respond.

  “You don’t remember?” he asked in a dry whisper. He held up his dagger, not aiming it at the man. Instead, he presented it like a gift, face up in his palm. “You came into my home, and drew this dagger from your own chest and killed my daughter with it.”

  Recognition flashed across the man’s face as he stumbled, sinking low onto a chair. His skin went pale, either from blood loss or from fear. He shook his head. “You should be dead. I killed you.”

  Harrison reached up, knife to his own throat, and pulled at the top of his shirt. Buttons snapped and flew across the room as he drew it down, and Rebekah’s stomach flipped at the sight. Black, rotted skin twisted and plunged inward to a gaping, browning hole in his chest. Bones scarred white peeked from the wound, blood dried around them.

  “You didn’t try hard enough.”