The rain pounded against the balcony doors, sending cold drafts into the dimly lit chamber. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the walls, amplifying the tension that hung in the air.
Elizabeth Howlett trembled, her frail hands clutching at the velvet sheets of her bed. The icy night wind crept through the open doors, sending shivers down her spine. But it wasn't just the chill that left her frozen in place—it was the towering figure standing in the doorway.
"Victor... why are you here?" Her voice was barely a whisper, wavering between disbelief and fear.
Victor Creed stood in silence, a monolithic presence against the stormy backdrop. His long, wild hair dripped with rain, his heavy coat soaked through. Lightning flashed, momentarily illuminating his face—harsh, rugged features, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
Elizabeth's breath hitched. Her fingers dug into the fabric beneath her, her pulse hammering against her ribs. She wanted to scream, to call for help—but she dared not move.
Finally, Victor broke the silence. His voice was deep, rough, carrying the weight of something unresolved. "What is James to me?"
Elizabeth's mouth opened and closed, but no words came.
Victor took a slow step forward, the wooden floor creaking under his weight. "Answer me."
Thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the very foundations of the manor.
"What are you talking about?" Elizabeth stammered, her voice rising in pitch. "What do you want, Victor?"
Another step. The edge of the bed was mere inches away.
Boom! A violent crack of lightning split the sky. For a fleeting moment, Victor's face was fully illuminated, and Elizabeth saw it—the resemblance.
Her eyes widened in horror.
"Thomas!" she shrieked, hands flying to her head as if trying to claw away the memories that surfaced.
Victor flinched, but his expression remained unreadable. His voice, however, grew sharper. "Tell me. What is James to me?"
Elizabeth's composure shattered. She clutched at her hair, shaking her head violently. "No! James—don't hurt him! Please, Thomas, don't hurt him! He's your son! You can't—"
Her voice dissolved into broken cries, her words slurring together in panicked hysteria. She sobbed, raving, her mind lost in the past, trapped in nightmares long buried.
Victor stood motionless, the storm raging behind him. His question had been answered—but now, he was unsure if he had truly wanted to hear it.
A long pause filled the room before he finally turned. Without another word, he stepped back onto the balcony and disappeared into the storm.
---
A Search Without Answers
"Any sign of him?" James asked, his voice tight with frustration.
Jack Pete, his most trusted rider and head of security, stood before him, fatigue written all over his face. "We scoured everything within a thirty-mile radius. No bodies, no animal attacks, no disturbances. It's like he vanished into thin air."
James exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "That means he went south."
His worst fear had been that Victor, under Adam's influence, would begin attacking people. But if there were no strange deaths or sightings, then it was likely he had left to rejoin the war. The battlefield had always been where Victor felt most alive.
Still, James couldn't shake the uneasy feeling lingering in his gut.
As if sensing his thoughts, Jack hesitated. "You think he'll come back?"
James was silent for a long moment. Then, softly, "I don't know."
---
Preparations for Departure
"How many damn suitcases do you need?" James asked, watching O'Hara fuss over her luggage with a smirk.
"That's all of them," O'Hara replied, beaming as she directed the servants to load them onto the carriage. Her long red hair shone under the morning light, and her emerald eyes were alight with excitement.
James arched a brow. "We're heading to Washington, not Europe."
O'Hara huffed, adjusting her pearl handbag. "It's my first real trip, and I'm meeting the President. Excuse me for wanting to make a good impression!" She lifted the hem of her comfortable dress—far more practical than the corsets and heavy skirts most women wore, a choice James had always approved of.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "The war isn't over yet. We'll likely be going back and forth a lot. Hell, we might even move to the States permanently."
O'Hara's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Really? We'd leave the manor?"
"Maybe," James admitted. "Canada's vast, but it's isolated. And there's too much work to do in the U.S."
This trip to Washington wasn't just a courtesy visit. It was about alliances, war strategy, and, most importantly—finding Victor.
Adam was still out there, wounded but dangerous. Leaving him unchecked was a mistake James refused to make.
---
Washington, D.C. – The White House Banquet
By September of 1863, the Union Army had captured Chattanooga, and with the fall of Hudson Harbor in July, the Confederate forces were effectively cut in two. The South was on its last legs, and the war's outcome was all but sealed.
But politics never waited for bloodshed to end.
"Mr. Howlett, Miss O'Hara, this way, please," a White House attendant greeted them with a polite nod, leading them through the grand halls of the Executive Mansion.
President Lincoln had initially resisted the idea of a celebration, arguing that the war was not yet fully won. But political pressure, along with the morale boost such an event would bring, had swayed him.
O'Hara walked beside James, her usual confidence slipping just a bit in the presence of such grandeur. "James," she whispered, gripping his arm. "What if I say something stupid in front of the President?"
James smirked. "Then I'll make sure you're never invited back."
She elbowed him, muttering, "Jerk."
The moment they stepped into the ballroom, a familiar deep voice called out.
"James! James!"
President Abraham Lincoln strode toward them, a broad smile on his face. Apologizing to the people he had been speaking with, he took his wife Mary's hand and approached.
"You're here!" Lincoln's eyes held a hint of concern as he studied James. "I trust your journey was smooth?"
James inclined his head, offering a brief smile. "It was uneventful, thankfully."
Lincoln's gaze lingered for a second longer, as if searching for something unspoken, then he turned to O'Hara.
"And you must be Miss O'Hara," he said warmly.
Before she could answer, Mary Lincoln took her hands with a delighted expression. "No wonder my husband never accepted my matchmaking efforts for Mr. Howlett," she teased. "He was already spoken for."
O'Hara flushed, glancing at James, who merely smirked in amusement.
Lincoln chuckled, then clapped James on the shoulder. "Come, let me introduce you properly."
As they moved deeper into the gathering, James met the eyes of powerful figures—senators, industrialists, military officials. Many had heard of him, of the Howlett family's growing influence, and of his role in the war.
Some looked at him with admiration. Others, with wary calculation.
James knew one thing for certain—tonight, in this grand hall, there were far more dangerous players than the ones he faced on the battlefield.
And somewhere out there, in the shadows of a broken Confederacy, Victor Creed was waiting.
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