Jonathan had a calculative head perched on his utterly useless shoulders — a vulture eyeing roadkill and pretending it was a feast.
It was the one of the thing keeping him atop this long. That cold, reptilian instinct that knew precisely when to strike and when to slither back into the shadows.
The same instinct that had navigated Legacy politics for decades, whispering which alliances to forge, which throats to cut in the dead of night, and exactly how hard he could beat his wife without leaving marks that wouldn't pass muster with a half-blind doctor.
That instinct was screaming now.
The instant his eyes locked on Phei standing beside the bed — holding Roxanne's hand, eyes glowing with an actual, literal, impossible radiance that turned the dim bedroom into something out of a nightmare — his legs moved before his brain could catch up.
One step back.
Then another.
