Saintess's Worthless Husband Turned Dragon Commander novel Chapter 9

Bruno King collapsed to his knees the moment Aaron Jackson fully revealed the Soul-Chasing Token.

The black marker seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, its ancient symbols writhing like living things in the dim light of the bar’s backroom.

“No… no, please…” Bruno’s voice cracked, all his earlier bravado evaporating like morning mist. “Not that. Anything but that.”

Aaron lit a cigarette calmly, the flame from his lighter casting dancing shadows across his face. “You know about the token, then. Good. That saves me the explanation.”

“Everyone knows about it,” Bruno whispered, his gold teeth chattering. “Wesley Cooper… three years ago… they found him dead in his penthouse. No marks, no explanation. Just… dead. The token was on his chest.”

“Wesley was a fool who thought money made him untouchable,” Aaron said, exhaling smoke. “He learned otherwise. And before him, there was Jennifer Walsh, David Chen, Michael Santos… all marked, all dead within half a day. The Soul-Chasing Token has never failed.”

Bruno’s hands shook violently as he pressed them together in supplication. “Aaron, man, I swear on my life—I never offended anyone important! I’m just a small-time operator! I take jobs, I do work, but I never crossed any major players! Never!”

“You offended someone tonight,” Aaron said quietly, tapping ash from his cigarette. “Someone far beyond your comprehension. Someone who makes the people you consider ‘major players’ look like insects.”

“Who?” Bruno’s voice was barely audible. “Who could I have possibly—”

“Marcus Steel.”

The name hung in the air like a death knell.

Bruno’s face went from pale to ashen. “Marcus Steel? That… that nobody? That useless son-in-law everyone laughs about? The unemployed loser who married Quinn Hartford?”

“That ‘nobody,'” Aaron said with dangerous calm, “is the person you accepted two hundred thousand dollars to hurt. That ‘useless son-in-law’ is the man who survived four professional assassins tonight. That ‘unemployed loser’ is someone you should have never, ever agreed to touch.”

“But… but he’s nothing!” Bruno protested desperately. “Everyone knows it! The Hartford family treats him like garbage! Quinn is divorcing him for Alexander Grant! How could he possibly—”

“What the Hartford family thinks is irrelevant,” Aaron interrupted. “What Quinn Hartford believes is meaningless. Marcus Steel is protected by forces that would crush the Hartfords without a second thought.”

Bruno’s eyes went wide with sudden hope—desperate, clawing hope. “My brother! Tyler King! He’s got connections! Real power! Money, influence, politicians in his pocket! He can protect me! He can negotiate with whoever—”

Aaron laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“Tyler King,” he repeated, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. “Your brother who runs drugs through the east district? Who thinks he’s a kingpin because he’s got a few cops on payroll and some city councilmen who owe him favors?”

“He’s powerful!” Bruno insisted. “He’s got reach! If you just let me call him, if you give me a chance to—”

“Compared to the colossal force backing me, the King family is insignificant,” Aaron said flatly. “Your brother’s entire operation, all his wealth, all his connections—they’re worth less than pocket change to the people I serve. And if Tyler King knew who you offended tonight, he’d be the first one putting a bullet in your head to avoid the fallout.”

“Leave him alive. Marcus will decide his fate.” Aaron paused. “The Dragon King is returning to his full power. Everyone will learn soon enough what that means.”

The Hartford household loomed like a monument to old money and older grudges. Marcus Steel stood at the entrance, his hand on the doorknob, steeling himself for what he knew would be an unpleasant encounter.

He’d only come back for his things—his few possessions, the documents he’d need, the last physical traces of three years wasted on a marriage that had been dead long before tonight.

But when he pushed open the door, he found Quinn waiting.

She never waited for him. In three years, she’d never once been home early to greet him, never prepared dinner, never showed any interest in his comings and goings.

Yet here she sat at the dining table, surrounded by untouched dishes—expensive food growing cold on expensive china. Her parents flanked her on either side, Brandon Hartford’s face carved from granite, Karen Ridge practically vibrating with barely contained fury.

“You’re late,” Karen snapped the moment Marcus closed the door. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Marcus checked his watch—a cheap thing that had survived the building collapse somehow. “It’s eight-thirty. I wasn’t aware I had a curfew.”

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me!” Karen’s voice rose shrilly. “You show up whenever you please, treat this house like a hotel, and expect us to just accept your complete lack of responsibility!”

“I came to get my things,” Marcus said calmly. “I’m not staying.”