Chapter 182
Allison crept through the narrow corridor, each step measured until she found herself swallowed by the suffocating blackness of a hidden room—the kind of darkness that devoured hope, leaving only dread. Before she could contemplate escape, the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps echoed, steady and unhurried, like a relentless clock. Someone else had entered the secret room.
"Great," she muttered. "Just my luck. This is a complete nightmare."
She hastily located the nearest cabinet and hid inside.
Kellan's deep, resonant voice echoed through the room just as warm, dim lights flickered to life, casting shadows along the walls. "I told you to dig up every scrap of information on those thugs," he said. "If you can't get anything out of the last survivor, silence him. Don't bring any more of your messes back to my doorstep."
Allison had never anticipated encountering him here. Peering through a narrow gap in the cabinet door, she watched as Kellan lifted his shirt, revealing toned muscles and the smooth lines of his back. But it wasn't his physique that shocked her; it was the wall behind him. It wasn't hiding dark family secrets, as she'd imagined. Instead, the room was adorned with whips and peculiar gadgets. Handcuffs dangled beside candles; collars hung like relics of unspoken indulgence. It was a collection tailored for desires she'd never associated with him. Wasn't Kellan supposed to be disinterested in women? He always carried himself with an air of aloofness, cool and detached—not someone you'd picture indulging in such extreme tastes.
Allison's mind reeled. This was the Lloyd family's forbidden room, barred to outsiders, yet it held this assortment of tools.
While she reeled, Kellan shrugged off his shirt completely, sitting on a couch. His reflection in a large mirror stared back as he methodically applied ointment to a wound. Beside him, his phone was on speaker; one voice after another reported in, but his attention seemed divided. Even from her hiding spot, Allison could detect the iciness in his voice—a venomous undercurrent laced with irritation and unmistakable threat.
"Screw up again, and don't expect mercy," he said. "I don't have time for failures." There was no warmth, only a cold edge hinting at unspoken cruelty. "And for the ones who were skinned alive—if any are still breathing—carve them up, piece by piece." His face remained impassive, as though the savagery he spoke of was as casual as a dinner plan. "Let's face it, they had it coming."
Allison was blindsided by the revelation of Kellan's concealed ruthlessness and icy demeanor. While she knew surviving in the world of wealth and power demanded certain skills, it was hard to reconcile this brooding, violent Kellan with the man she'd known. The chasm between the two was wide and unnerving. Listening to him calmly discuss brutal methods of torture as if debating a dinner menu made her stomach churn. There was no mistaking it: he'd walked this dark road many times before.
When he spoke to his subordinates, the sheer weight of his authority pressed down like a heavy stone, making everyone uneasy. It was no wonder rumors painted him as a volatile madman, capable of shifting from cold calculation to explosive anger in an instant.
But knowing this side of Kellan didn't shock Allison as much as the items on the wall. She lifted her gaze, studying the scene with sharper intent. The craftsmanship was striking, the materials fresh and fine, yet she hadn't expected his preferences to lean so far into the strange.
Meanwhile, Kellan remained blissfully unaware of her presence. With the precision of someone accustomed to pain, he applied ointment to his abdominal wound, barely blinking. His voice remained level as he instructed, "Get my grandmother moved to a different sanatorium. The last one had a nice view, but the staff couldn't care less about her. I remember West Mountain's scenery being decent. We'll set up a private facility there and put our own people in charge."
The person on the other end hesitated. "But moving her might stir up trouble. The director of the old sanatorium could make a scene."
Kellan's face darkened; impatience crept into his expression. His sneer carried a cold bite. "They're all incompetent. I pay them more than enough every year, and they still mess up. Their last blunder was bad enough. I'm not leaving her there another day."
His hand slipped, pressing an alcohol swab too hard against the wound. The sharp pain should have made anyone cry out, but Kellan only tightened his jaw, a stoic refusal to let even loneliness betray his vulnerability.
Silence stretched; his subordinate was clearly rattled.
"Understood, sir," came the subdued reply.
The tension lingered. Kellan slowly raised his head, catching his reflection in the mirror. His skin was a roadmap of scars, mementos of old battles, with new wounds marking fresh defeats. As he pressed harder on the injury, the sting became a steady throb, but his mind wandered to Allison.
The mirror offered no comfort, only a reminder. When she had treated his wounds, her raven-black hair sometimes skimmed his skin, while her cool, unyielding eyes seemed to pierce through him. Her gaze had been cold, but her hands, precise and delicate, moved with an unsettling tenderness. Now, staring at his reflection, it was as if her cold fingers were ghosting over his skin, numbing the pain with every light touch.
Allison, hidden in the cabinet, furrowed her brow, her expression hardening. Peeking through the gap, she noticed the thin sheen of sweat forming across Kellan's back. How could someone treat their injuries with such reckless indifference? He could have easily summoned a private doctor, yet here he was, tending to himself as if there were no one else in the world he could trust.