Chapter 4 - The Son's Descent
Marcus descended the three marble steps with the slow, terrifying deliberation of an executioner.
The guests instinctively parted before him, retreating several paces into the manicured shrubbery.
The air grew noticeably colder, as if the sun itself had yielded to his suffocating gravity.
Victoria saw her husband approaching and immediately rearranged her features into a mask of pathetic victimhood.
She squeezed out artificial tears, running toward him with her manicured hands outstretched.
She cried out that the housemaid had completely lost her mind and brutally assaulted her without provocation.
Marcus did not even look at her as she rushed into his path.
He simply raised his left forearm and brushed her aside as though she were a ghost of no consequence.
Victoria stumbled awkwardly into a wicker patio chair, her jaw hanging slack in humiliated disbelief.
Marcus walked straight past his wife and knelt down on both knees directly in front of the wheelchair.
The hard stone bruised through his trousers, but he did not seem to register the discomfort.
His massive, scarred hands reached out and gently enveloped his mother’s cold, trembling fingers.
He leaned in close, his deep baritone dropping into a tone of heartbreaking gentleness.
He asked his mother if she was hurt and whether anyone had dared to lay hands upon her fragile body.
Eleanor looked down into the face of her only son, her eyes brimming with unshed tears of relief.
She shook her head softly, unable to form words through the dry constriction of her throat.
May you like
Marcus felt the violent tremor running through her frail limbs and understood everything.
He turned his head slightly toward the silver bat lying on the grass, his jaw clenching until the tendons strained against his skin.
