“Push!” Victoria commanded, her voice cracking.
In the Master Suite, the curtains were drawn. Alistair sat propped up by pillows, sweat drenching his pajamas. Victoria was massaging his right hand, forcing the fingers to curl around a stress ball.
Alistair’s face was contorted in a silent scream. The pain was blinding–white-hot needles piercing his arm every time he tried to send a signal to his hand.
“I know it hurts,” Victoria said, not letting up. “It *should* hurt. You faked your death. You terrorized my son. You tried to destroy William.”
She pressed his thumb down, forcing the muscle to contract.
“You broke this family, Alistair,” she whispered fiercely into his ear. “Now you are going to fix it. Push!”
Alistair groaned, a guttural sound rasped from a throat unused to noise. His arm shook violently. He focused on the image of Cross in the house, the “Wolf” threatening his legacy. He channeled sixty years of arrogance into a single movement.
His fingers clamped around the ball. *Squeeze.*
Victoria exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Good. Again.”