Chapter 143: Blood Before Morning

Micah’s POV

"Why... why are you answering Noah’s phone?" my voice cracked, trembling violently as a fresh tear spilled down my cheek. "Wh... where is Noah?"

My mind spun into panic. There was no way something had happened to Noah, right? If he was fine, why was his private butler holding his phone at past midnight? I gripped the edge of the nightstand, my knees going weak. Hot tears flooded my eyes, and my chest seized up so tightly I couldn’t breathe. I was on the verge of breaking down and screaming when a faint rustle came through the speaker.

"Is that Micah?"

Noah’s voice.

My eyes flew wide open. I brought my palm up, aggressively wiping the tears off my cheeks.

"Yes, Noah! It’s me!" I practically shouted into the mic.

"Oh. Hey, Micah," he answered.

His voice sounded completely cool, steady, and unbothered, exactly the way it always did.

The suffocating terror that had been crushing my ribs vanished in a single instant. I let out a massive, shuddering breath, a shaky smile pushing past my trembling lips. Hearing his deep, calm rumble made the entire room feel safe again.

"Are you okay?" I asked, clutching the phone with both hands. "I woke up in Damon’s car and you were gone. Damon said you—"

"Right," Noah interrupted smoothly. "Something urgent came up at the estate and I had to handle it personally. That’s why I told Silver to take you to his place."

"I was terrified, Noah," I admitted, my voice dropping into a quiet whimper. "I thought something bad happened to you. You never let my calls ring to voicemail. I called you four times and you didn’t pick up..."

"Micah," Noah called my name softly.

The gentle warmth in his tone made my throat tighten.

"Do you really think something bad could ever happen to me?" Noah gave a quiet, low laugh on the other end. "I’m fine. Nobody in this city can touch me."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, nodding even though he couldn’t see me. I wanted to ask him what kind of business kept him out this late, and why David was with him, but Noah spoke before I could get the words out.

"It’s late," Noah said, his tone turning firm. "You need to go to sleep. You have a long day tomorrow with the media department, and the championship game is in the evening. I’ll come pick you up at the Silver estate first thing in the morning, okay?"

"Okay," I whispered obediently.

"Goodnight, Micah."

"Goodnight, Noah."

The call disconnected with a soft click.

I stood beside the bed for a long moment. Knowing Noah was alive and safe put my restless mind completely at ease. Whatever crisis had dragged him away from the rink was clearly under his control.

I set the phone face-down on the wooden desk, grabbed the dry towel, and vigorously rubbed my damp hair.

As I tossed the towel aside, my eyes drifted toward the wooden door on the adjacent wall. That door led straight into Damon’s master bedroom.

’Should I knock and let Damon know that Noah is fine?’ I wondered.

Damon had looked stressed when we arrived. He had pretended not to care, but I knew he was worried about what had pulled Noah away.

I stared at the brass doorknob for three seconds, then shook my head violently.

"No way," I muttered to myself. "If I walk into Damon’s room dressed in pajamas at this hour, that bastard will never let me leave."

The memory of Damon’s teasing grin flashed in my head, making my cheeks heat up with sudden embarrassment.

I locked the adjoining door from my side, pulled on a pair of soft cotton sleep pants, and turned off the bedside lamp. I crawled under the thick duvet, pulled the blanket up to my chin, and closed my eyes, finally letting exhaustion take over.

Noah’s POV

It had been almost an hour since I forced Damon Silver to take Micah away in his car.

Handing Micah over to another man... especially a Silver made my entire soul burn with rage. It was completely against my nature. I despised having anyone else touch him, look at him, or protect him.

The urgent message I received from David had left me with zero choice.

My father had dispatched a clean-up squad to the Miller residence. They weren’t sent to negotiate. They were sent to eliminate me.

Bernard Miller was a deranged hypocrite. He hated Micah, treated him like garbage, and constantly threatened him with the army or the monastery. Bernard only kept Micah alive because Micah’s face was an exact mirror image of the woman Bernard had obsessively loved twenty years ago. Bernard was a psycho who hoarded my brother like a stolen trophy, while viewing me as a monster that needed to be put down.

When the syndicate ordered Bernard to get rid of the surviving Whitfield heir, Father finally decided to pull the trigger.

There was no way in hell I was going to let Micah be anywhere near this house when that bloodbath began.

David had already mobilized six armed operatives from our private network by the time my car tore into the driveway. When I walked through the side entrance, three of Bernard’s hitmen were already inside, moving through the dark hallways with suppressed handguns.

They thought they were ambushing an unsuspecting college hockey player.

The fight was brutal, fast, and unforgiving.

Gunfire ripped through the living room, shattering glass, splintering the oak doorframes, and tearing the walls to shreds. Bernard’s men were professionals, but they weren’t expecting a coordinated syndicate hit squad backing me up. We trapped them in the kitchen corridor and put bullets through their skulls before they could even hit their distress beacons.

Bernard fucking Miller.

The arrogant old bastard actually thought he could wipe me out in my own home. Tomorrow was the championship game, and tomorrow was also the day Bernard’s miserable life would come to an end. I was going to rip his entire political scheme apart, tear down Plan Mayor, and kill him with my bare hands so he would never look at Micah again.

"Are you all right, Master?" David asked, stepping around a shattered porcelain vase and taking my phone from my fingers.

"Turn the damn phone completely off so no one else calls," I gritted out through clenched teeth.

My left hand was pressed tightly against the right side of my ribs, warm, sticky blood oozing heavily between my fingers. One of Bernard’s shooters had managed to fire a stray round before I cracked his windpipe. The slug had grazed my side and lodged deep into the meat above my hip bone.

"Understood, Master," David replied, powering down the device. His eyes dropped to the crimson stain spreading rapidly across my dark shirt. "We must dress this wound immediately. You have the championship finals tomorrow evening. If the athletic board sees blood or if you tear your muscle on the ice—"

"I will handle the bullet myself," I snapped, cutting him off as a sharp, burning wave of pain pulsed through my side.

I pushed myself off the marble kitchen counter, ignoring the sickening tug in my torn flesh. I looked down at the three dead bodies lying on the tile floor, surrounded by spent brass casings and shattered dishware.

"Call the sanitization crew," I ordered David coldly. "Get every drop of blood scrubbed off these floors. Patch the bullet holes, haul the bodies out to the incinerator, and replace the broken furniture. I want this entire house spotless before Micah steps foot through the front door tomorrow morning."

"Y-yes, Master," David bowed his head, already dialing his radio.

I grabbed the heavy metal first aid kit from the pantry cabinet and dragged myself up the back to my bedroom.

I kicked the door shut and locked it.

I peeled off my ruined, blood-soaked shirt, hissing through my teeth as the stiff cotton pulled against the open, torn flesh. The pain was sharp and blinding, hot adrenaline pumping through my veins.

I rolled up the dry sleeve of the ruined shirt, shoved the thick fabric deep between my teeth, and bit down hard.

I snapped the latches of the first aid kit open.

My hands moved quickly across the supplies. Antiseptic bottle. Gauze rolls. Surgical needle. Curved extraction forceps.

I gripped the cold steel forceps in my right hand, poured rubbing alcohol directly over the open wound, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

A muffled groan ripped past the fabric in my mouth as the alcohol burned into the torn tissue like liquid fire. My knuckles turned white against the metal tool.

Careless. I had been so fucking careless.

I aligned the steel tips with the entry hole near my ribs, took a sharp breath through my nose, and drove the forceps deep into the bleeding flesh to clamp onto the bullet.

My muscles locked rigid, sweat instantly pouring down my face, but my eyes remained completely cold.

It was just a piece of lead. It was just a shallow wound.

There was no way in hell a scrap of metal was going to stop me from stepping onto that ice tomorrow, crushing Jenson’s team, and burying Bernard Miller once and for all.