Theron
It had been a week since the incident.
For the first few days, Vale had been confined to his room. Now, he was mobile, leaning on a silver cane. The injury made him more vulnerable. And that vulnerability was a lure Theron could barely resist.
The incident had broken something in him.
Seeing Julian wrapped in Vale's coat, safe and sound, while he sat shivering and bleeding in the dirt had forged a link between them.
A debt.
His only strategy was to retreat. This obsession was a weakness and he had to kill it.
But Julian was making it hard. He had become Vale's little shadow.
"Mr. Vale showed me the constellations last night from my window," Julian announced at breakfast. "He says the brightest star is named after a dog. Can you imagine?"
Theron grunted into his coffee. He refused to look at Vale, who sat across the table, a book open beside his plate.
"He said his father taught him," Julian continued, oblivious. "He said knowledge is the only thing that can't be taken from you."
The boy's admiration was a glowing endorsement of the man Theron was trying desperately to hate.
When Vale approached him in the hall later to discuss Julian's progress, Theron cut him off.
"Leave the report on my desk," he said, his voice clipped and cold. He didn't look at him.
He saw the flicker of surprise and hurt in those hazel-green eyes before Vale murmured, "Of course, Your Grace," and hobbled away.
The sight of that pained expression was a twist of the knife in Theron's gut.
He was being cruel and he knew it.
Every polite word from Vale was a temptation. Every glance was a spark. The only defense was to be a bastard.
* * *
He was back in the library.
Vale was there by the fire, looking up as Theron entered, his eyes wide and questioning.
Theron slammed him back against the wall. A small, startled gasp escaped Vale's lips, his eyes wide with shock.
"Your Grace—" the word was a choked whisper.
"Don't," Theron growled.
He tangled a hand in that thick, soft hair, yanking his head back to expose the long, pale line of his throat. He lowered his head and sank his teeth into the skin above the collarbone. Mine.
A choked sound escaped Vale.
Theron's mouth crashed down on his, forcing his way in. He expected him to fight, to shove him away. Instead, after a moment of shock, Vale melted. His body went pliant. His hands came up to grip Theron's shoulders, fingers digging in.
Theron ripped his waistcoat open, the buttons scattering. He tore the white shirt, needing to feel the skin beneath. His hands were rough, possessive against his body.
He broke the kiss, both of them panting.
He pushed Vale down onto the mahogany desk, scattering papers and books. He followed him down, pinning him to the hard wood. Vale's eyes were wide with a mix of fear and excitement.
"Theron...," he breathed.
Theron woke with a gasp.
The dream was so vivid, so real, that for a disorienting second, he could still feel Vale's mouth under his.
He threw back the covers and stumbled to the washbasin, splashing his face with water. He felt disgusted. He was no better than the brutes he'd commanded, men driven by their basest needs.
But it didn't change a thing.
He still wanted it. He wanted it all over again, right now and this time, he wanted to be awake.
* * *
Finn
The cane was a work of art. Polished ebony with a silver head shaped like a wolf. A gift from the Duke for saving his precious nephew.
Finn practiced walking with it in his room, putting on a pronounced limp, wincing at just the right moments.
All part of the performance.
It had been a week of being waited on by servants, of Beatrice the cook sending him special broths, of Julian treating him like a hero.
A week of the Duke treating him like he had the plague.
He wouldn't look at him. Wouldn't speak to him.
If they passed in the hall, Theron's face would turn to stone and he'd walk on without a word.
The bastard was scared. The incident in the woods had terrified him. And now he was trying to pretend it never happened.
Finn's patience was wearing thin. The constant performance was exhausting. He wanted this over with.
He found Elsie in their usual spot, the corridor behind the kitchens. She was waiting for him, her arms crossed, her face tight with fury.
"You dumb, reckless sod," she hissed, her voice a vicious whisper. "You could have killed him!"
Finn leaned casually on his new cane, raising an eyebrow. "Good evening to you, too, Elsie. To what do I owe this warm welcome?"
"Don't play the fool with me, Finn," she snapped. "The boy! You had him out in that storm for hours. What if the Duke hadn't found you? What then? A cold, dead heir on your hands? How's that for revenge?"
He scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "It was a calculated risk."
"It was a cock-up!" she shot back. "You got properly lost, didn't you? This wasn't part of the plan. Don't lie to me. I know you."
The truth stung. He hated that she could see it.
He dropped the posh accent, his own voice coming out in a snarl. "So what if I did? Look at the result." He held up the cane, admiring the silver wolf's head. "The Duke's own physician tended to me. Beatrice fusses over me like I'm her long-lost son. And the Duke… the Duke can't even look at me without lookin' like he's about to shit his trousers."
"This isn't a game!"
"It is a game!" Finn countered, his voice rising. "And I'm winnin'!"
"He's just a boy, Finn."
"He's an Ashworth. He'll grow up to be just like the rest of 'em."
Elsie stared at him, her eyes searching his face. "There was a time you wouldn't have said that," she whispered. "There was a time you wouldn't have risked a child."
He looked away, his jaw tight. Julian's terrified, pale face in the hut flashed in his mind. Guilt twisted in his gut. He shoved it down.
They stood in a tense, angry silence. Elsie sighed, the fight going out of her.
"You're right about one thing," she said. "The Duke is obsessed with you. Terrified, but obsessed. Barrow says he just sits in his study all night, drinkin'. Doesn't even pretend to read."
"He's tryin' to starve it out," Finn sneered. "The great war hero. Thinks he can beat it with discipline and silence. He's a fool." He pushed off the wall, his fake limp forgotten for a moment. "I'm sick of waitin', Elsie. I'm sick of this house and these clothes and this accent. I want to finish it."
Elsie nodded, reaching into the pocket of her apron. She pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. "Then you'd best get a move on. I have what you asked for."
Finn took the paper and unfolded it. It was a list. Names, dates, figures. Details of the estate's finances, its investments, the properties mortgaged to pay for the last Duke's extravagances. It was a map of the Ashworth family's vulnerabilities.
He looked at the financial records in his hand, then back at Elsie.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, "the war hero falls."