Larissa's Game of Thrones (Larissa) novel Chapter 741

“Paxton!” Vivica gasped, her hand instinctively slapping the switch for the overhead light.

A blinding glare flooded the living room, illuminating a scene of chaos. A table was overturned, shards from a shattered vase littering the floor.

The two figures locked in combat were instantly exposed—Paxton, his hair disheveled and the collar of his silk pajamas torn open, had a raw, bloody gash on his forehead. He was desperately parrying a combat knife wielded by a stranger clad head-to-toe in black, his face hidden by a ski mask and a baseball cap.

“Vivica! What are you doing out here? Get back in your room! Lock the door!” Paxton roared, his voice laced with a panic she’d never heard before as he struggled to fend off the attacker.

His shout sent a tremor through her. In that instant, she understood.

This black-clad intruder’s target was her.

Fear, cold and suffocating, coiled around her heart. She scrambled back into her room, slamming the heavy door shut and leaning against it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her heart hammered against her ribs, threatening to burst from her chest.

But if her husband had hired someone to kill her, why was he fighting so desperately to stop him?

The thought had barely formed when a more terrifying question seized her: with all this commotion, why was there not a single sound from their son Leopold’s room next door?

“Agh…”

A muffled, pain-filled groan came from beyond the door. It sounded like Paxton was being choked.

Vivica’s body, pressed against the door, flinched violently. A war raged within her, terror battling against a desperate wave of concern.

“Open the door, and your husband might be saved!”

“Don’t you dare! Open it, and that knife will be coming for you!”

She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood. The image of the gash on Paxton’s forehead, the raw panic in his voice, and the unnerving silence from her son’s room flashed through her mind.

But the door remained shut, as if welded to its frame. The room beyond was utterly silent.

Just then, the black-clad hitman, who had been watching with cold indifference, made his move.

He lifted his foot and mercilessly kicked Paxton in the side.

“Ugh!”

Paxton grunted in pain, his body rolling from the impact and slamming into the leg of the overturned table, sending more porcelain fragments skittering across the floor.

The hitman ignored the man on the ground. Gripping the dagger that was still dripping blood, he began walking toward Vivica, his steps steady and menacing, each one radiating a suffocating pressure.

With every step he took, a drop of blood fell from the tip of his knife, landing on the carpet and blooming into a tiny, dark red flower.