Page 127 of Broken Crown

Nothing came.

Just silence. And a truth I could no longer outrun.

I loved her…

Not the way I'd loved the idea of revenge. Not the way I loved power or control or the satisfaction of watching my enemies fall.

I loved her the way a dying man loved air. Desperately. Completely. Without any hope of survival if she was taken from me.

The truth I'd been too afraid to face during our bitter fight earlier, when my plans for a perfect proposal were derailed by her coldness, by my jealousy, by everything unsaid between us, flowed easily in front of my enemy.

Too fucking late.

Or maybe not too late.

Maybe just late enough that I finally understood what I stood to lose.

What I may have already lost.

In one fluid movement, I threw him across the room.

He crashed into a side table, sending crystal decanters and glasses smashing to the floor. Before he could recover, I was on him, my fist connecting with his jaw in a sickening crack.

Blood sprayed from his split lip.

And another.

"You never gave a damn about any of us," I snarled, punctuating each word with another strike. "We were just pawns in your fucking game."

His head snapped back with each impact, blood streaming from his nose, but still he managed to smirk. "Just like you with your precious Sabrina. Don't pretend you're any better."

He was right.

I had done exactly what he'd done. Taken someone and used them. Justified it with strategy and necessity and the cold calculus of power. The only difference was that somewhere along the way, the game had stopped being a game.

And I hadn't noticed until it was too late.

With a roar, I grabbed him by the throat, squeezing until his face purpled.

The veins in his forehead bulged as his hands scrabbled uselessly at mine.

His words echoed in my head, merging with Sabrina's accusations, creating a storm of self-loathing that could only be silenced by ending him.

The ballroom doors burst open as my guards rushed in, weapons drawn.

"Sebastian! Enough!" Benedict's command cut through the red haze clouding my vision.

Hands grabbed my shoulders, pulling me back, but I resisted, tightening my grip on my father's throat.

"He's not worth it," Benedict said. "Not like this."

Rafaello came running in with three guards in tow.

It took all four of them to drag me off my father.

I fought against their restraining hold, my chest heaving, blood—his and mine—streaming from my split knuckles.

My father stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly.