Chapter 9 No Mercy for the Wicked

The cramped storage room held only a worn-out folding bed and a handful of rudimentary living essentials. The rest was cluttered with junk. The yellowed walls reeked of mildew, and cobwebs clung to the corners. Samuel was furious to see such dismal living conditions. "Kate, what were you thinking? Kaia is my own sister. Who gave you permission to put her in here?" Helpless and aggrieved, Kate replied, "Mr. Larson, didn't you tell us to move Ms. Larson in here? Have you forgotten?" "When did I—" Samuel's words cut off abruptly. Eight years ago, on the day Kaia was brought home, he had let her choose a room. She had picked the guest room beside his own bedroom, but he immediately refused. "I'm turning that into a study. Pick another one." Next, she chose the room beside Wendy's, but again, he rejected it. "Wendy needs that for her art studio. You can't stay there." Kaia suggested the attic, but Samuel refused again. "You're the Larson family's heiress. People would laugh at us if word got out that you were living in the attic. Aren't there any other rooms, Kate?" "Well, yes, but only the storage room is left—" "Then, clear it out and let her stay there for now." Samuel had imagined the storage room would be as bright and airy as the guest rooms. Instead, it didn't even have a window. The image of Kaia spending day after day in that cold, lonely room flashed unbidden through his mind, sharpening the pain in his heart. Even the helpers had their own bedrooms in the sprawling villa, yet Kaia had been confined to a dark, damp storage room for three years. The thought almost smothered Samuel, leaving a thick tension around him. Kate hesitated before speaking. "The storage room is damp, Mr. Larson. Should we move Ms. Larson to my room instead?" "No," Samuel said, his tone final. His heart ached as though pierced by needles, each one sharp with guilt and sorrow. His insides coiled into an unbearable knot. After a steadying breath, he ordered, "Call Jonah. Have him come to my room." With that, he cradled the unconscious Kaia against his chest and strode straight to his bedroom. Watching Samuel's hurried steps, Kate felt a flicker of hope for Kaia. Though he had always ignored Kaia, leaving her forgotten, he finally acted like a real brother today. Kate quickly dialed Jonah Lane's number. "Dr. Lane? Ms. Larson is ill. You need to come immediately." Five minutes later, Samuel's door swung open. The voice came before its owner. "Tell me, Mr. Larson, just how obsessed with your sister are you? Wendy's sick, and instead of letting her rest in her own room, you drag her all the way to yours… Wait, it's her?" Jonah stepped inside as he spoke, but the moment his eyes landed on Kaia, who was pale and lying on the bed, his mocking grin vanished, replaced by disdain. "I don't treat convicts." He grabbed his medical kit and turned to leave. "Jonah." Samuel frowned. His voice was low but firm, brooking no argument. "She's my sister. Don't ever call her that."     Jonah's expression was icy. "Kaia may be your sister, but what about Wendy? Kaia shares your blood, but Wendy is the one who grew up with you. Lily, the Graham family heiress, was perfectly fine before Kaia ruined her life, leaving her in a vegetative state. "Kaia served just five short years in prison, and now she gets to live normally again. But who will give Lily another chance? Kaia destroyed her life forever!" A flicker of unease crossed Samuel's face, his hands clenching and unclenching reflexively. He was torn—guilty over his sister Kaia, yet furious at the injustice Wendy and Lily suffered because of her. "She's still my sister," he said weakly but with stubborn resolve. Jonah's gaze was cold as he took in Kaia's gaunt face, his lips twisting into a sneer. "I don't care about that. She's wicked. "Someone like her doesn't deserve help. Even if she gets better, she'll just hurt people again." "Jonah!" Samuel's voice turned hard, his gaze locking onto Jonah's, pleading yet unyielding. "Then check her, especially her right leg." The two men locked eyes. Finally, Jonah sighed in resignation. "I'll look her over, but don't expect me to treat her." He strode back to the bedside, dropped his medical kit, and yanked up Kaia's pant leg, grumbling under his breath, "I don't get why you're fighting so hard for her. Someone like her ought to just—" His words died abruptly. Jonah's gaze landed on Kaia's emaciated leg, his eyes locking onto the twisted break as if held there by some unyielding force. Shock crashed over him in relentless waves, battering his mind. Kaia's right leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Her skin stretched taut over the jagged bone beneath, with almost no excess flesh left. The scar at the fracture coiled like a vicious centipede across her pallid, nearly translucent skin, framed by blotches of dark red bruising. Jonah slowly raised his hand and lightly touched the broken limb. Every touch sent a jolt of dread through him. His fingers trembled faintly, involuntarily. Although resentment and disgust toward Kaia filled him, his medical training made him instantly aware of the severity of the injury. "Her legs… Were they always like this?" Jonah's words dropped like a pebble into still water, instantly sharpening Samuel's gaze. "Of course not. Her legs were fine for the three years she was home." Jonah realized at once that Kaia's leg injuries must have happened in prison. Suppressing his shock, he continued examining her. The more he assessed her, the deeper his frown grew, his expression darkening with each discovery. Kaia's condition was dire. Prolonged malnutrition had left her dangerously frail, while old and new wounds crisscrossed her skin. They were likely from lashings of unknown origin. Jonah could barely take it. He stood, his voice rough. "Samuel, come outside with me." After leading Jonah into the study, Samuel said solemnly, "Go on." Jonah steadied himself, choosing his words. "Do you know how strong human bones are?" Samuel shook his head. Jonah met his gaze and said deliberately, "Human bones are incredibly strong, particularly the tibia and fibula in the legs. A comminuted fracture usually requires a high-impact force—something like a major car crash or a fall from several stories up. "But since she was in prison, a car accident or a fall seems unlikely. Her injuries look more like they were caused by a blunt object. "From the look of the injuries, she got little to no medical treatment afterward. The bones healed without being properly set, leaving her legs severely deformed. "The pain she must have gone through is unimaginable. The fact that she's survived this long is nothing short of a miracle." Samuel's body began to tremble uncontrollably at Jonah's words. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles bleaching white. His eyes burned with fury, rage searing through him like wildfire, threatening to devour him whole. "She was in prison… How could they?" Visions of Kaia being tortured in prison flooded his mind—her frail body battered again and again with blunt weapons. A dull ache in his chest made his vision swim in waves. It took him a long moment to choke back the fury raging inside him. "Jonah, will Kaia's leg ever recover?" Jonah shook his head with a heavy heart. "The injury's at least three years old. It's too late to treat it now." Samuel stood rooted. He barely registered Jonah leaving. By the time he came to, he had already moved and slumped into a chair, defeated. His thoughts were chaotic. He pulled out a cigarette out of reflex, but his trembling hands couldn't steady the flame. In agony, Samuel flung the unlit cigarette aside and buried his face in his hands, fingers clawing into his scalp. His body curled in on itself, trembling faintly, his throat tight with stifled, ragged gasps. Time seemed to freeze, his suffering the only thing stretching endlessly forward. It was a long while before his breathing steadied. Slowly, he lifted his head, his expression icy as he picked up his phone and dialed a number. "Silas, dig up everything that happened to Kaia in prison. Every detail." Samuel's voice was ice-cold, every word as sharp as shattered glass.