Even after Her Death (Chloe and Luke) novel Chapter 428

How wonderful life would be if Taylor weren't part of the Carlyns.

I sighed softly and turned around. Carter and Yael were nowhere in sight. A sound of anguish from Yael's bedroom caught my attention. Worried that Carter might lose control and harm Yael fatally, I decided to follow the noise.

The room reeked of blood. Carter stood there, his sleeves rolled up and his watch set aside. A dagger glinted in his hand, its blade smeared with some kind of ointment. His eyes burned with a cold, lethal intent.

"So, dear cousin, do you like my wife that much?" His tone was icy, his voice sharp.

He let the blade glide slowly across Yael's back. I could see the blurred wound, and the uninjured skin dotted with goosebumps.

I had never seen anyone use a knife to apply medicine.

For a moment, I couldn't tell who was more perverted.

"Carl." Pushing the slightly open door wider, I stepped inside.

Carter's expression flickered with a trace of unease when he noticed me, while Yael looked up with an air of innocence. "Chloe ... "

Carter quickly tossed aside the knife in his hand. "Don't get the wrong idea. I was just cutting open his bandages."

I glanced at Yael's bleeding back and gave a faint smile. "Go ahead. It's fine."

I didn't hold anything against Carter because I knew Yael wasn't innocent.

Yael's difficult past wasn't my doing, but he was the reason Carter and I were separated. The pain he inflicted on me, like taking away my voice, remained undeniable.

Since Carter had always stood by me without hesitation, I felt compelled to not let him down. Our bond had already transcended the boundaries of life and death.

Yael's gaze flickered with disappointment, but I chose to ignore it, instead diverting my attention to his room.

Carter, clearly fed up with the chaos, had set the knife aside and started tending to Yael's wound.

As I scanned the room, my eyes landed on a photo. It depicted a couple with two children.

Amber, likely in her 40s or 50s, appeared youthful—barely in her 30s—and carried an air of sophistication.

In the photo, she was cold and unsmiling, appearing naive, like in her early 20s.

The man beside her was tall and dignified, bearing a strong resemblance to Taylor. His arm rested gently on Amber's shoulder, his expression refined and kind.

Standing in front of them were two children dressed in formal attire, grinning brightly at the camera. Taylor seemed genuinely happy.

Then there was Yael, around a year old, wearing yellow duck overalls, his chubby cheeks and soft, slightly curly hair giving him a cherubic charm. He looked remarkably like Amber, with a sweet smile that radiated innocence.

Unlike Amber's serious demeanor, the man and the boys exuded happiness. It was their only family photo.

"How did your father pass away?" I asked.

"In a car accident," Yael replied, lying on his pillow with his back turned to me.

Breaking the silence, he added, "Chloe, I know you plan to take Whitney away. You see Taylor as a monster, but you've misunderstood. Without Taylor, she would've died a long time ago.

"When Whitney first came to the Carlyns at just five years old, my father's hatred for the Sanders meant her life could've ended as easily as squashing an insect. Despite restricting her freedom, Taylor provided her with the best he could. If not for him, she might've ended up as a blood donor, an organ source, or worse, someone's plaything. He's always been her shield.

"You've only been with us for a few days, Chloe. What do you know about us? You see the Sanders as victims, but haven't we suffered too? My father lived through the bitterness of the previous generation's grievances, battling severe schizophrenia and depression. He saw his parents die and endured a lifetime of pain, even in his short life."

I couldn't counter Yael's words. The truth remained murky, and Grandma still couldn't speak coherently.

However, the Carlyns' graves on Rosbel Island were undeniable.