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Chapter 2 - Duty Versus Desire

Theron

Theron sat at his desk, a ledger of estate accounts open in front of him, but his attention was elsewhere. 

The door to his study was cracked open.

Vale's voice drifted in from the library. "…and so Achilles, the greatest warrior the world had ever seen, wept not for kings or for glory, but for the loss of his friend, Patroclus. It shows us, Julian, that even the strongest men are ruled by their hearts."

Theron's hand, holding a fountain pen, clenched. What a load of sentimental nonsense. A soldier who wept was a soldier who died.

Strength was control. Nothing more.

He risked a glance through the crack in the door. 

Vale was leaning in close to Julian, the firelight catching in his ash-brown hair, turning the strands to gold. He was all soft lines and gentle movements. 

"Did he… did he get revenge?" Julian asked. 

Vale's mouth curved into a gentle smile. "He did. A terrible, bloody revenge."

"Tell me Julian, what do you like to do?"

Julian hesitated, looking down at his hands. "I like drawing. Animals, mostly. Mr. Graves sometimes lets me sketch the horses." His voice was barely a whisper, but it was the most Theron had heard him speak in a week.

"Drawing?" Vale's face lit up. "That's wonderful! We should start a sketchbook. We can document all the creatures of Blackwood."

Julian's head snapped up. "Really?"

"Absolutely."

Julian smiled, not the little twitch Theron sometimes managed to coax out of him, but a real smile that reached his eyes and made him look like a little boy again. 

It struck Theron like a physical blow. 

Vale had made Julian smile and talk more than Theron had ever been able to.

As if feeling the weight of his stare, Vale looked up. His eyes met Theron's through the crack in the door and he gave him a polite smile. Theron quickly turned away, but the image of that smile was burned into his mind. 

* * *

Finn

Finn stood before the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it slightly. 

He practiced his expression: mild, curious, a little bit shy.

Perfect. 

This was what he was good at. Deceiving people.

It was a skill he'd learned in the slums, where knowing who to fool, who to fight and who to run from was the only thing that kept you alive.

He learned to watch people, to spot their weaknesses.

Once, he'd lifted a watch off some fat merchant. A clean grab. Enough to keep them fed for a week. 

But Daniel found out. He didn't yell. He just gave him that look. The one that made Finn feel like dirt. 

"We're better than this," he'd said. Daniel took the watch back. Got them both a beating for his trouble. All for what? Honor? Honor didn't fill their bellies.

Finn slipped out of his room and padded down the corridor, his feet bare on the cold floorboards. 

Elsie had told him that the great war hero had a nightly ritual of sitting alone in the library with a bottle of whiskey and drinking himself into a stupor. 

Pathetic.

As he neared the library, he could see a sliver of light under the doors. He pushed them open just enough to slip inside. 

There he was. 

Lord Theron Ashworth, His Grace, the Duke of Blackwood. 

He was sunk deep in a leather wingback chair by the fire. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table next to him. 

Finn cleared his throat softly. "Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion. I couldn't sleep. I was hoping to find a book… something to quiet the mind." 

Theron didn't startle. His movements were slow as he turned his head. 

Finn saw the flicker in the Duke's eyes. Curiosity fighting with the desire to be left alone.

For a long moment, there was only the hiss and crackle of the fire.

"Perhaps I should leave–," Finn began. 

"Stay," Theron commanded, the word abrupt. He gestured with his glass toward the chair opposite. "Pour yourself a drink."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Finn headed towards the expensive whiskey and poured some into a crystal tumbler. It smelled like smoke and money. Same as the cheap gin his father used to drink. The rich just paid more to poison themselves. 

Finn sat, perching on the edge of the seat like the humble tutor he was supposed to be. 

The silence returned, thick and heavy. Theron stared into the flames, his jaw tight. Finn watched him over the rim of his glass. The way his thumb stroked the crystal. The faint scar that cut through one eyebrow.

Hatred roiled in his gut.

"You spoke of Achilles to the boy," Theron said, his voice a low rumble. "You believe a man is ruled by his heart?"

Finn took a slow sip of the whiskey, letting it burn. "I believe it's his greatest battle, Your Grace. Duty versus desire."

"And which side do you fall on?" Theron's eyes were on him now. Sharp. Calculating. 

He thought of Daniel's last letter, full of misplaced faith in the 'noble' Duke of Blackwood. 

"I think a man who silences his heart isn't a man at all," he said softly, meeting Theron's gaze. 

He saw it. A flicker of pain in the Duke's eyes, so quick he might have imagined it. 

Theron downed the rest of his whiskey in one swallow. The silence that followed was different. It was charged, intimate. 

Finn felt his stare on him, like a physical touch. It slid over his face, his hair. 

Then it dropped to his mouth. And lingered. 

Finn felt a jolt of cold, vicious triumph.

He had him.

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