Lucian’s breath came in slow, steady drags—too steady for a man pinned beneath two furious sons and a blade at his throat. Even bleeding, beaten, cornered, he held himself with that same poisonous confidence, as if he believed he still controlled the script.

But he didn’t.

Not anymore.

Ares pressed his knee harder into Lucian’s chest, forcing out a grunt. Atlas tightened his grip on Lucian’s wrist until bone creaked beneath the pressure.

Helena stood over them, blade ...