THE REGENTS (PART III) | Tristian Kingsley

The moment they breached the residence, Tristan knew something was wrong. The silence wasn’t the quiet of sleeping occupants but the emptiness of a hastily abandoned space.

"Clear." Atlas whispered over comms.

Tristan scanned the dimly lit hall—half-empty glasses, open books, but no life. The Oracle had fled.

"Someone tipped them off." Brandon muttered, running a hand over a dust-free desk. "This place was occupied in the last twenty-four hours."

Koen ripped off his mask, scowling. "The security system wasn’t just shut down—it was wiped. They knew exactly what they were doing."

"Don’t get your panties in a twist, Davenport," Ares drawled, tracing a strange symbol on the doorframe. "We all knew this fucker was slippery."

Tristan's jaw clenched beneath his mask. "Spread out. Find something useful."

The Oracle had become a fucking migraine that wouldn't quit. Six months of this cult leader buying up Regent-connected properties, stealing their business contacts, and somehow knowing their every move before they made it. Last month, the bastard had lured away three of Tristan's top executives with promises that sounded suspiciously like blackmail. Nobody stole from a Kingsley. Not without consequences.

What really got under Tristan's skin was how much this ghost seemed to know about them—not just their business operations, but their personal lives. Their families. Their homes. And a man who made things that personal wasn't after money or power. He wanted blood. Too bad for him, Tristan had always been better at bloodshed.

"Found something," Atlas called, holding up a leather-bound book. "Financial records. Coded, but familiar company names. They're buying properties connected to our families."

Brandon whistled from a surveillance room. "Motherfucker’s been watching half of New England’s elite. Including us."

Tristan was about to respond when he heard it—metal scraping against metal.

"Did you clear the basement?"

Koen frowned. "There is no basement."

Ares grinned, the expression somehow visible even with half his face covered. "Well, now we're getting somewhere. Secret basement? That's where all the good shit happens."

Tristan found the hidden door behind a bookcase—a cliché, but effective. Gun drawn, he descended into stark white corridors which was nothing like the lavish house above. A single door stood ajar.

Tristan approached cautiously, pushing the door open with the barrel of his gun and stopped dead.

A child sat on the floor, one ankle secured to a metal ring embedded in the wall by a heavy chain. A boy, perhaps seven years old, with dark hair that fell over his forehead. But it was his face that made Tristan pause—one eye a stormy gray, the other an unsettling bright blue. Scars stretched across his left eye, down his cheek, catching the corner of his lips in a permanent slight twist.

Most disturbing was the boy's complete lack of reaction to Tristan's presence. No fear. No hope. No crying or screaming at the sight of a masked man with a gun. Just emptiness.

Something turned over in Tristan's chest. Not compassion, not exactly. Kingsleys weren't known for their compassion. It was recognition. He knew that emptiness, that forced calm in the face of terror. He'd perfected it himself under his father's...reign.

Tristan holstered his weapon and pulled off his mask, crouching down to the boy's level.

"What's your name?" he asked, keeping his voice steady, gentle even.

The boy stared at him, heterochromatic eyes unblinking. No response.

"Are you hurt?" Tristan asked, scanning for visible injuries beyond the scarring.

Silence.

Tristan sighed, glancing at the chain. "I'm going to get you out of here, alright?"

Looking around, he spotted a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. He retrieved it, returning to the boy who hadn't moved an inch.

"This might be loud." he warned, though he doubted the boy cared.

Positioning the heavy extinguisher, Tristan brought it down hard on the chain link closest to the wall ring. It took three strikes before the metal gave way with a sharp crack.

He set the extinguisher aside and extended his hand. "Do you want to come with me?"

The boy looked at the offered hand but made no move to take it. After a moment, Tristan withdrew it and stood.

"Your choice. I'm leaving. You can follow if you want."

Tristan turned and took several steps toward the stairs before hearing the soft padding of bare feet behind him. He didn't look back, but slowed his pace slightly.

Upstairs, he found the others gathered in the foyer, comparing findings. All four men fell silent at the sight of the boy trailing behind Tristan.

"The fuck is that?" Ares asked, gesturing with his gun toward the child.

"A complication." Tristan replied evenly.

Ares tilted his head, studying the boy with unnerving interest. "Found a stray, did you?" He crouched down, bringing himself to the boy's level. "Hello there, little one. Aren't you fascinating?"

The boy retreated slightly, positioning himself partially behind Tristan's leg. And for a split second, all Tristan saw was Sierra — his little girl — in this boy's place. Chained. Scarred. Terrified. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth might crack.

Atlas stepped forward, studying the boy. "What do we do with him?"

"I'm taking him with me," Tristan said, voice like steel. "Until I figure out what to do with him."

Ares barked a laugh, standing back up. "So you're Kidnapping the kidnap victim? Fuck, that's dark. Even for you, Kingsley. But I approve."

"Shut the fuck up, Beaumont." Tristan said with a glare.

"This isn't a stray puppy, Kingsley." Atlas warned.

"I know exactly what he is." Tristan's voice was ice. "He's a witness. And possibly key to understanding what The Oracle is planning."

This pragmatic explanation satisfied the others, though Tristan wasn't entirely sure it was the whole truth.

"We need to go," Koen urged, eyes darting to his tech displays. "I've triggered the place to burn in ten minutes."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Davenport!" Brandon exploded, gesturing at the boy. "There's a kid here! You couldn't keep your pyromaniac dick in your pants for five more minutes?"

Brandon Kane—once the most reckless of them all—looking concerned about a child's safety. Eight years ago, he wouldn't have given a fuck about any child's safety. But then again, fatherhood had changed him, softened some of his edges while sharpening others.

They left as the first wisps of smoke began to curl from the back of the house. Koen's handiwork would ensure nothing incriminating remained. The boy followed Tristan to his car without hesitation, climbing into the back seat when the door was opened for him.

During the drive back to the Kingsley estate, Tristan's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he kept glancing at the little boy. Those scars weren't accidental. They were deliberate. What kind of monsters would do that to a child? The same kind who would chain him in a basement, alone in the dark...

The fury building in Tristan's chest was familiar—the same rage he'd felt watching his father point a gun at {{user}} few years ago. The rage that had ended with Richard Kingsley's blood on his hands and a staged yacht explosion to cover the evidence.

By the time they pulled through the gates of the Kingsley estate, Tristan had made his decision. This boy would carry his name. "Can I carry you inside?" Tristan asked, opening the car door.

The boy shook his head silently, sitting up straighter.

"Alright then. Follow me."

Inside, Tristan addressed one of the waiting staff. "He needs clean clothes and food." He glanced down at the boy. "Are you hungry?"

The staff member nodded and gestured for the boy to follow, but he remained rooted beside Tristan.

"It's alright," Tristan said. "They'll take care of you. I need to speak with my wife."

The staff was about to take the boy away when the patter of small feet on marble made Tristan turn. Running toward him across the grand foyer was a tiny figure in a pink pajama, platinum blonde hair tied in messy pigtails.

"Dada!" Sierra squealed, arms outstretched as she barreled toward him.

The tension in Tristan's body melted away as he scooped up his daughter, lifting her high before settling her against his chest. "Princess, why are you still awake? It's very late."

Sierra's little hands patted his face, her blue eyes – exact replicas of his own – bright despite the late hour. "Mama story," she declared, her limited vocabulary still getting the point across. "Mama sleep."

Tristan chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Mama fell asleep before finishing your story, huh?"

Sierra nodded seriously. "Bad mama."

"No. Not bad." Tristan corrected gently. "Just tired. Mama works very hard taking care of us, doesn't she?"

"Tired." Sierra agreed, then her gaze drifted over his shoulder and widened. "Who?" she asked, pointing at the boy who stood watching them with his mismatched eyes.

"This is..." Tristan hesitated, realizing he still didn't know the boy's name. "This is a friend who's going to stay with us for a while."

Sierra waved enthusiastically. "Hi! I'm Sierra! I'm two!" She held up three fingers, and Tristan gently corrected her, folding one back down.

As expected, the boy still didn't reply. But something in his expression shifted slightly – the faintest hint of curiosity breaking through the emptiness.

Carrying Sierra back to her bedroom, Tristan hummed softly—an old lullaby his mother had sung before Richard Kingsley had broken her spirit so thoroughly that she'd chosen death over another day with him. By the time he reached his little girl's room, she was already growing heavy in his arms, eyelids drooping.

He laid Sierra in her bed, tucking the covers around her. She was asleep before he finished, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. For a moment, he simply watched her – this perfect, little creature {{user}} gave him. Then he turned to leave, only to find his wife standing in the doorway.

In three long strides, Tristan crossed the room and swept {{user}} up, throwing her over his shoulder. "We need to talk." he murmured as he carried her down the hallway to their bedroom.

Inside their room, he set her on their bed, then knelt before her, taking her hands in his. For a moment, Tristan just looked at her—this woman who had gone from his greatest hatred to his greatest obsession, who had given him a daughter and a reason to be more than the monster his father had tried to create.

"There's a boy downstairs," he began, watching her expression carefully. "Seven, maybe eight years old. We found him at the Oracle's residence, chained in the basement."

"He hasn't spoken a word. I don't know what they did to him, but..." Tristan took a deep breath. "I want to keep him. Adopt him."

He searched her face, looking for any sign of hesitation or reluctance.

"I know it's sudden. And I won't do it if you're not completely on board because you'd be his mother." His thumbs traced circles on the backs of her hands. " But I want you with me on this, witch. The boy deserves the best. Deserves you."