Chapter 11. Petty
"Make it life and death."
The words had barely left my mouth when I grabbed the front of his collar and hurled him like a sack of potatoes toward the dining table.
Before gravity could catch up, I followed it up with a swift kick to his chest mid-air. The impact was crisp, satisfying. He flew like a ragdoll straight across the table—cutlery clattering, porcelain shattering—before crashing down on the far side in an undignified heap.
The room collectively winced.
He groaned, face twisted in pain as he slowly pushed himself up. A nasty bruise was blooming on his cheek, and a thin trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth.
'Good. He needed a wake-up call.'
From the sidelines, both Lucian and Isolde were smirking. I could almost hear their thoughts. Their son was finally acting like them.
'So this is what they've been waiting for,' I thought.
The groom's parents turned their gaze to me—shock, horror, confusion all swirling in their wide eyes. Their pupils were practically trembling.
They hadn't expected that.
They thought I'd stay docile. Meek. The same Cassius Lancaster known for avoiding confrontation. The boy with the pretty face and zero spine.