My Bratty Wife
Chapter 218 - Two Hundred And Eighteen

Chapter 218: Chapter Two Hundred And Eighteen

Evan stood frozen, the blood draining from his face, Byron’s words about Brook echoing in the oppressive silence of the study. The name now sounded like a death knell.

Byron watched Evan’s reaction with a detached amusement, the faint, knowing curl still playing on his lips. He took another leisurely sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the crystal, a sound that seemed to mock Evan’s mounting terror. "You look surprised, Evan," Byron observed, his voice smooth as silk, yet carrying an undeniable edge of menace. "Did you truly believe your little spy could delve into my affairs without my knowledge? Did you think I wouldn’t have my own eyes on him?"

He placed his whiskey glass deliberately on the small table beside his chair. "And now that you know a fraction of the truth, do you think I’ll let you simply walk out of here unharmed?" Byron’s voice dropped, becoming a soft, dangerous purr. "To run back to the king and whisper your newfound suspicions?" He let out a short, dry laugh that held no humor. "No, Evan. That would be remarkably foolish of me."

Byron’s gaze hardened. He raised his voice slightly, not shouting, but with a tone that brooked no disobedience. "Elias! Bring him in."

The heavy oak door creaked open almost immediately, as if Elias had been waiting just outside, anticipating the command. The aide stepped in, not alone this time. He was dragging a figure, a man so broken and bloodied that Evan almost didn’t recognize him. With a grunt of effort, Elias hauled the barely conscious form into the room and unceremoniously threw him to the floor like a sack of unwanted grain.

The man groaned, a pitiful sound, and slowly, agonizingly, began to crawl. His fine clothes were torn and stained dark with blood and grime. One leg was bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken. His face was a mess of bruises and cuts. Yet, through the pain and delirium, a flicker of recognition, of desperate hope, ignited in his eyes as he saw Evan.

It was Brook. His aide.

Brook dragged himself across the expensive rug, leaving a faint smear in his wake, until he reached Evan’s feet. He clutched at Evan’s polished boot with a trembling, bloodied hand. "My... My Lord," Brook pleaded, his voice a hoarse, broken whisper, choked with pain and desperation. "Save me... please... he knows everything... save me..."

Evan was dumbstruck. He stared down at the wretched figure of his once-proud aide, then slowly, mechanically, turned his head to face Byron. The man who had been a quiet timid man, a pushover, Ryan’s "weakling brother," was now looking at him with a small, almost gentle smile that was far more terrifying than any overt display of rage. It was the smile of a cat that had finally cornered its mouse, a smile that promised suffering.

Byron retrieved his glass from the table, seemingly unperturbed by the drama unfolding at his feet. "I imagine you have a great many questions swirling in that dumb mind of yours, Evan," he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing a particularly interesting puzzle. "And in the interest of... resolution, I’m prepared to answer them. One by one. Consider it a final courtesy." He paused, his eyes glinting. "Of course, this enlightenment will come at a price. The price, dear Evan, is your life."

Evan swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in his throat. He tried to keep his composure, to project an image of the powerful lord he was, not the terrified man he was rapidly becoming. He could feel the cold sweat on his palms, the cold sweat forming on his forehead as he kept wiping off, the frantic thumping of his heart against his ribs. He had to avoid letting Byron sense the depth of his fear; any weakness would be exploited.

Byron continued, his voice a calm, steady stream in the deathly quiet room, broken only by Brook’s occasional whimpering. "Let me ease your confusion. I am, as you’ve so astutely begun to suspect, responsible for all the things you’re currently thinking of. The deaths, the rumors, the... massacre."

Evan found his voice, though it was strained. "The nobles... the ones who have been murdered over the past year... Viscount Conrad, Viscountess Dinah , Count Edmund ... that was you?" The question was almost an accusation, but it was tinged with a horrified awe.

Byron merely arched an eyebrow. "You’ve pieced much of it together already, haven’t you? Especially after your little spy started asking the right, or perhaps, wrong questions about the golden goblet. Consider your question answered."

A sudden, chilling memory surfaced in Evan’s mind – the failed assassination attempt on Duke Ryan a months back. An assassin, highly skilled, had been dispatched by Evan to remove the Duke. The attempt was a near success but not by his hand; the assassin was found dead and Ryan almost died.

"When I... when I sent an assassin after Ryan," Evan breathed, the realization dawning, "it was you who intercepted him, wasn’t it? You were responsible for what happened to him. You almost killed Ryan."

Byron’s smile widened slightly. He took another slow sip of his whiskey, savoring the drink, and perhaps the moment of Evan’s comprehension. He offered no verbal confirmation, but his expression was answer enough.

"Why?" Evan blurted out, the question that had burned in his mind before, now taking on a new dimension. Why eliminate nobles and include Ryan, his own ’brother’ who he deeply loves as family? What was Byron’s ultimate game?

"I am not obligated to answer that particular question," Byron stated coolly. "Some motives are best kept... private."

" Why did you send your aide to spy on Cassandra, do you love her too?" Evan asked, his voice trembling a little.

" I don’t have that kind of feelings for her," Byron replied. " Besides, Eleanor... The woman I love doesn’t want me and as for why, I don’t feel obligated to tell you."

Evan’s gaze fell again to Brook, who was now moaning softly, his body trembling. The man was clearly suffering terribly. The broken leg, the battered body – Byron was not merely a killer; he was capable of cold cruelty. This wasn’t a crime of passion; it was systematic, controlled.

A surge of desperate anger, fueled by terror, coursed through Evan. He was Lord Evan, a man of power and influence. He would not die here, not like this, at the hands of this madman. His hand darted inside his coat, his fingers closing around the familiar cold steel of his pocket pistol.

He drew the weapon with a speed born of desperation, aiming it squarely at Byron. "You bastard!" Evan snarled, his voice trembling but loud. "If I die today, I swear on my ancestors, I will take you with me!"

Byron’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. He simply watched Evan, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

Then, something strange began to happen to Evan. A sudden, intense itching started around his eyes. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but it only worsened. A warmth, a wetness, trickled from his nose. He raised a hand to wipe it away and stared in horror at the crimson smearing his fingers. Blood.

Panic seized him. His ears began to ring, and then they too felt wet. More blood. His throat constricted, and he gasped for air, a terrible burning sensation spreading through his sinuses and down into his chest. The pistol suddenly felt immensely heavy. It clattered from his nerveless fingers to the floor. He clutched at his throat, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. He was bleeding from his eyes, his nose, his ears, and now, as he coughed, from his mouth.

He stumbled, falling to his knees, his ornate attire now stained with his own lifeblood. He looked up at Byron, who was calmly observing his agonizing demise, still holding his whiskey glass. Brook, witnessing Evan’s sudden, horrific affliction, let out a choked scream. "My Lord! Lord Evan!"

Byron tilted his head slightly, a clinical curiosity in his gaze. "I knew you would fall for the little trap I set out for you, Evan," he said, his voice cutting through Evan’s agony. "Such a predictable man, in many ways. Always so sure of your own observations." He gestured with his glass. "The drink wasn’t poisoned. It’s perfectly good whiskey."

He paused, letting his words sink in, relishing the dawning horror on Evan’s contorted face. "The glass, however... that was a different matter. Coated with a rather potent, fast-acting toxin that is absorbed through the skin. Odorless, colorless. You couldn’t resist touching your face, could you? Wiping your brow when you felt anxious, rubbing your eyes. You introduced the poison yourself, with every nervous gesture."

Evan stared, his mind struggling to comprehend through the haze of pain and encroaching darkness. The whiskey glass Elias had poured for him... he had barely touched it to his lips, but he had held it. He remembered wiping sweat from his brow earlier, rubbing his temples when Byron’s revelations had become too much. He had, in his agitation, repeatedly brought his contaminated fingers to his face.

He tried to speak, to curse Byron one last time, but only a choked grunt, thick with blood, escaped his lips. "You... bastard..." he finally managed to rasp, the words barely audible.

" I have always wanted to end you from when we were little. I have always wanted to push you down the well or push you down the stairs." Byron sneered. " It took me so much patience to endure your idiocy and the urge to kill you right away because I still needed you but now, you are useless to me and I feel so good to see the life you always brag of leave your eyes."

Evan’s body convulsed, and then, with a final, shuddering breath, He collapsed onto the floor, his eyes wide and staring, a pool of blood forming around his head.

Brook stared in abject terror, his earlier pleas forgotten, replaced by a silent, horrified understanding of his own inescapable fate.

Byron looked down at Evan’s lifeless form for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he slowly raised his own glass, the one Elias had poured for him, and took a calm, deliberate sip of whiskey. The game was over. Another piece removed from the board.