Asher lay alone on the bed, still unconscious, when a figure slithered silently through the locked door. It was a familiar man dressed in a servant's outfit—the same wretched patched shirt and worn trousers that made him look even more pitiful than before.
Oliver had used a pin to pick the padlock on the bedroom door. Earlier, he had wanted to let his hired men handle the task, unwilling to dirty his own hands. But the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. No. This time he wanted the pleasure personally.
He stepped closer to the bed, eyes gleaming with madness.
"You creepy bastard… did you think I would let you be?" he muttered darkly. "Now I can kill you in peace, and soon your man will die too."
A twisted chuckle escaped him, low and sinister enough to make the room feel colder.
