Max sat behind the wheel longer than he needed to.
The engine was still running, low and steady, but he made no move to exit. The wrought-iron gates of George Claymore's estate stood open before him, the family crest still etched into the stone with the same arrogance as always. Technically, it was his now. Legally, politically, and by every damned noble decree in existence, this entire mansion belonged to Maximilian Claymore.
It didn't feel like it.
The air inside the car was too quiet, save for the occasional tap of rain against the windshield. His gloved fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he replayed the voice again—the one from the report, clipped and cold and far too familiar.
Callahan's voice.
"He was born for this. Olivier placed the contract, but the twin threads were always the goal, Gabriel for the rebirth. Max, for the containment."
Containment. Like he was a vessel.
