Chapter 87 God Of War “I did not touch her.” Reese spat, instantly releasing me. For unexplainable reasons, I figured out that the ‘her’ he referred to, wasn't me. The breath I didn’t know I’d been holding in for a long time burst from my lungs. If I hadn’t forced myself to stand tall, I would have crumbled into a pathetic heap on the polished floor, trembling in front of all of them. Only one thought kept circling in my head like a song on repeat… What did he mean by again? “The scene we walked into told a different story, Reese.” The young woman beside Roman’s father leaned forward, her voice sharp as an opera singer but still controlled and not shrill “Still lusting after what belongs to your brother?” Her words cut the air, and I saw the muscle in Reese’s jaw twitch violently. He snapped his head toward her, his teeth bared. “Don’t interfere,” he hissed, his voice guttural like an animal. His eyes flashed with a rage that made me instinctively shrink back, the heat of it directed at her but scorching me all the same. But his father—this towering, silent presence whose very aura filled the room—didn’t so much as blink. His gaze never left me. Still intensely assessing me. “What now? Why are you getting angry?” The lady asked, folding her arms. “Silence!” His next word cracked like thunder. The command vibrated through the air, and the room stilled instantly. I flinched harder than I meant to, the sound striking bone-deep. Even Reese recoiled, his fury smothered into obedience. The guards who had been nothing but stone statues shifted uneasily before freezing back into rigid postures. My heart slammed against my ribs. That single word had rearranged the entire room. Then his eyes landed fully on me once again. “Step forward, young girl.” Every nerve in my body screamed to stay rooted where I was, but the look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. This was not a man who tolerated hesitation or unruly behaviour. He was carved from discipline, bred for obedience, and used to seeing people bend. Disobedience wasn’t a choice here. It was a death sentence. My knees wobbled as I put one foot in front of the other, each step heavier than the last. I stopped a few feet away, close enough to feel the weight of his scrutiny, far enough that I might still run if the air turned deadly. Or if things got too serious. His gaze swept over me with surgical precision, like I was a specimen pinned beneath a microscope. His frown cut deep into his features, a crease that looked permanent. “You’re Savannah Hart,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. The words weren’t a question, but I forced my tongue to answer anyway. “The best friend my son is marrying?” “Yes, sir.” “How old are you, girl?” A sharp retort rose to my lips. Something along the lines of, ‘You’re quite rude, mister, asking a lady that’, but I swallowed it down. My sarcasm had gotten me into too much trouble already. “I’m twenty-nine, sir.” A flicker of something—surprise? Amusement? I don't know, passed across his face. It was gone so fast I almost doubted I’d seen it. Then he muttered, “So it’s true.” What’s true? My patience thinned with every clipped word from his mouth. The urge to snap back, to throw a nasty clapback at this rude, terrifying man, buzzed on my tongue. “How far along are you?” His next words detonated like a bomb. My brain blanked. My mouth opened before I could stop it. “I beg your pardon? Who the hell do you think you are?” I heard a gasp. The guards moved instantly, hands flying to their holsters. Guns gleamed as steel caught the light. My pulse spiked, but strangely, I wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. My anger burned too hot, searing away the fear that should have crippled me. I lifted my chin, glaring at the man who had turned my life into a circus in seconds. He raised one hand casually, and the guards froze, retreating back into perfect stillness. His control was terrifying. An empire balanced on a single gesture. His eyes pinned me again. “You are not pregnant?” My restraint snapped. “No. I am not pregnant. Why does everyone keep asking me that? It’s rude.” I pointed a finger at him. “And you’re being rude, sir” The young woman at his side gasped softly, covering her mouth as though I’d just committed blasphemy. But the words kept tumbling out of me, fire and defiance and recklessness. I've had enough. My verdict was simple; I don't like him. He's an asshole. “If you’re going to be disrespectful in Roman’s house, then leave. Roman doesn’t even want you here.”The words left my mouth like a gunshot, and the silence that followed was uncomfortable. The air froze. I realized later that I probably shouldn't have said that, considering I had no idea what Roman's relationship with his father was like. The guards, the woman, Reese—everybody was statues, waiting for the explosion that surely had to come. Even my own skin tingled with the certainty of death. My own death. But instead of fury, instead of bullets or blood, all I got was a slow lift of his brow. Nothing else. “Do you know who I am, Miss Hart?” His voice was steady, maddeningly calm. I folded my arms tight across my chest, as if that could shield me. “No. And I don’t think I want to know. Your son rough-handled me at your command, pinned me to a wall like a criminal, and I demand an apology from both of you. And instead of doing that, you walked in here and accused me of something I know nothing about.” Mouths dropped open around the room. Shock radiated from every face. Reese leaned in close, his whisper loud against my ear. “Tone down that attitude. You’re going to earn yourself a free bullet. He’s not just anyone. He commanded armies before most of us were even born.” Commanded armies? What the fuck is this guy on?I snapped my head toward Reese and shot him a glare. “Come close to me again and you’ll earn yourself a free punch.” When I turned back to the older man, I braced for punishment. A frown. A gun. Wrath. Something. Anything. But what I found instead shook me more than anger could have. A smile. Small. Crooked. Amused. As if I was some entertaining clown, as if my reckless words were a joke he had long waited for. “You’re right, Miss Hart.” His cane cracked against the floor, the sound echoing through the silent space. “I apologize. That was very rude of me and my son.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze dropping to me as though I were a curious little creature. “Do you accept my apology?” The young woman gasped again, louder this time. From her reaction, I could tell this man had never apologized to anyone before. Ever. I squared my shoulders. “Fine. I accept your apology.” His smile widened just a fraction. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he passed his cane to the woman beside him and stepped forward, stretching out a hand. “Reginald Blackwood. Roman’s father.” He introduced himself with a casualness that belied the sheer gravity of his name. And that was when everything clicked. Where I’d seen him before. Why his face prickled my memory like a half-remembered nightmare. It all made sense now. Recognition jolted through me as I placed my hand in his. His grip was firm, authoritative, a handshake that had sealed treaties and crushed enemies alike. I had seen this man before. On TV broadcasts, in old newspapers, in dusty history books. Shaking hands with kings. Standing beside presidents. Giving speeches that made entire nations tremble. General Reginald Blackwood. Former head of the army. Former president of the entire country. And now, standing in Roman’s foyer, his hand wrapped around mine, he smiled as though I hadn’t just insulted him to his face. As if I hadn’t just survived staring down a god of war.