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Chapter 4 - I’ll Make You Touch Me Again

Finn

The Duke was watching him. 

They were in the library and Finn was supervising Julian's sketching lesson.

Julian was absorbed in sketching a detailed drawing of a robin he'd seen in the garden, his tongue poked out in concentration. The scratching of his pencil was the only sound.

Theron sat behind a large desk. He was pretending to read a newspaper, but Finn could feel his eyes on the back of his neck. 

Let him watch. Let him burn.

Finn got up and moved through the room, his steps deliberately slow and graceful. He ran a hand over the spines of the books, feigning interest. He was aware of his body, the fit of his trousers as he bent slightly to read a title. Every move was a bait. 

He stopped at a low shelf filled with old maps and crouched down, his trousers pulling taut across his thighs. 

"Your Grace?" His voice was pure Peregrine Vale. Soft, respectful. 

The newspaper rustled. A pause. Finn could almost hear the gears grinding in his head. Don't answer. Don't look. Don't move. 

"What is it?" The voice was a low growl. 

"I wonder… do you have a copy of Ptolemy's Geographia? Julian has shown an interest in the ancient world and I thought a glimpse at the maps might capture his imagination."

He heard the scrape of his chair. Heavy footsteps. Theron's shadow fell over him.

He was close. So close Finn could smell the coffee on his breath. 

"It should be here," Theron bit out, his voice right next to Finn's ear. He crouched down. 

They were side-by-side in the small space, their shoulders nearly touching. Finn could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the muscles in his neck, feel the heat radiating from his body.

Theron reached for the book and Finn reached at the exact same time. 

As Theron's fingers closed over the book, Finn let his own slide forward, his fingertips brushing the back of his hand. 

It was nothing. A ghost of a touch. Less than a second of contact.

But a spark ran up Finn's arm. His own body reacted before his mind could stop it, an involuntary clench in his gut.

Theron yanked his hand away as if he'd been burned. He stared at his own hand, then at Finn. His gray eyes were wide with shock. Panic. And underneath it, something dark. Hunger. Raw and undeniable. 

Finn blinked, arranging his face into a picture of innocent surprise. 

"My apologies, Your Grace," he murmured, his voice smooth. "How clumsy of me." He slid the book from the shelf. 

Theron surged to his feet and stalked back to his desk, his face a stony mask. 

Julian, completely unaware of what was going on, looked up from his drawing. "Can I see, Mr. Vale?"

They perused the book together, but his real focus was on Theron. He could feel his stare, hot and heavy, from across the room. 

When the lesson ended, Julian looked at Theron with a hopeful expression. "Uncle, Mr. Vale showed me where the great library of Alexandria was."

"That's nice," Theron said, not looking up from his paper.

Julian's face crumpled and he shuffled out of the room.

Finn started to clean up, ready to leave the bastard to his misery. But Theron's voice stopped him.

"Mr. Vale."

Finn turned. "Your Grace?"

Theron was on his feet, staring out the window. "You're good with him. I'm not. I don't know what the hell to do with a ten-year-old boy who lost both his parents."

Theron wanted pity. He wanted Finn to see him as some tragic hero.

Finn forced his voice to be smooth. "You're his guardian, Your Grace. That's what he needs. He's a good boy. He just needs time."

Theron turned, his eyes zeroing in on Finn's face, searching for something. "Right," he finally grunted, his walls slamming back into place. 

* * *

Later, alone in his room, Finn stood over the washbasin, scrubbing at his fingers, at the spot where he'd touched the Duke, scrubbing until his skin was red and raw. 

But he couldn't wash the feeling away. The memory of the contact made his skin crawl.

That involuntary spark of awareness. A desecration of his brother's memory. It made him feel filthy. 

He slammed his hands down on the basin, water splashing onto the floor. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror. 

"I'll make you pay for that," he snarled. "I'll make you pay for everythin'. I'll make you touch me again. And again. Until you're so fuckin' lost in it, you won't even see the knife comin' for your throat."

* * *

Theron

Mud. Blood. Screaming.

"It's a slaughter," a voice screamed over the thunder of cannons. "We have to fall back!"

"Hold the line!" Theron roared. He raised his saber and pointed it toward the enemy's position. "Advance!"

He felt a searing heat tear through his shoulder. He looked down. There was no wound. But the pain… the pain was real. 

He opened his mouth to scream.

Theron shot up in bed, gasping, his heart hammering in his chest. The room was dark, the fire long dead. The only sound was the wind howling outside the manor.

He swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. He needed a drink. 

He walked through the silent, sleeping house. The portraits on the walls watched him pass, their eyes full of judgment. 

He passed the corridor where the staff quarters were. And then he saw it.

A sliver of light under a door.

Vale's door.

He found himself drifting toward it. 

He stood before it and heard the rustle of a page turning.

Vale was awake. Reading.

He imagined Vale, propped against a stack of pillows, his beautiful face soft in the candlelight, his thick, wavy hair falling across his forehead, his pink lips curved in a small, peaceful smile. 

An overwhelming urge rose up in him. 

He wanted to knock. He wanted to see him. Needed to see him. 

To wash away the painful memories of the past. 

He wanted to confess. He wanted to be saved.

He raised his hand. His knuckles hovered an inch from the door.

What would he say? Forgive me, Mr. Vale, I am haunted by the ghosts of men I killed. May I look at you until I forget?

The sheer, pathetic madness of it crashed over him. He snatched his hand back, disgusted with himself.

He was the Duke of Blackwood. He was not some weak, trembling boy who went knocking on his tutor's door in the middle of the night, begging for comfort. 

And the comfort he sought was a sin. A perversion that would see him ruined.

He took a step back, then another, fleeing from the sliver of light.

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