Theron
Theron sat in his study with a bottle of whiskey. The fire had died down, offering no warmth.
He'd spent a week at war with himself and lost.
The cold shoulder and silent treatment had been a failure. It hadn't killed his obsession with Vale, only made it stronger.
His dreams were the worst. A nightly loop of him and Vale engaged in the most sinful acts. He'd wake up hard and shaking, disgusted with himself and desperate for more.
He was the Duke of Blackwood. A hero of the Scythian campaign. And he'd been completely and utterly broken by a man with the face of an angel.
He couldn't do it anymore.
He stood up and walked out of the study, the whiskey singing in his blood. He knew where he was going. He was being pulled there and he no longer had the will to fight it anymore.
He shoved open the library doors.
And there he was.
Just like in his dreams.
Vale.
He was sitting in one of the wingback chairs by the fire. A book lay open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. He was staring into the flames, his cravat loosened at the throat.
He looked beautiful.
The sight shattered the last of his control.
Vale looked up, his body going still as he saw Theron in the doorway. "Your Grace," he started to say.
Theron didn't let him finish. He walked right up to Vale's chair, trapping him. He looked down at the man who had ruined him. At the soft, full mouth that haunted his dreams.
He leaned down, planting his hands on the arms of the chair, caging him in. Vale shrank back, his eyes wide.
Theron's voice was a low rasp.
"Who are you?"
* * *
Finn
The air was thick with the reek of whiskey and desperation. The Duke loomed over him, gray eyes searching Finn's face.
Who are you?
The question hung in the air.
I'm your fuckin' ruin, mate.
This was the moment he had worked for, planned for.
He thought of Daniel. He looks right through you, like he can see what you're made of.
Let's show him, then.
He didn't answer. He rose from the chair, slow and deliberate. He didn't use his cane. He moved into the space between them, so close he could feel the heat rolling off the Duke's body and smell the whiskey on his breath.
Theron was frozen, paralyzed by the terrifying proximity of the thing he wanted most.
Finn lifted a hand and gently brushed a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. The touch was feather-light, innocent. Theron flinched, a tremor running through him.
"You're wrong about the Stoics, Your Grace," Finn whispered, his voice the soft, cultured murmur of Peregrine Vale. "Duty doesn't conquer the heart." He raised himself onto his toes, his face tilted up to the Duke's. "It just starves it until it dies."
And then he kissed him.
A cold, calculated press of his mouth against the Duke's. For a second, nothing happened.
Then a guttural sound tore from Theron's throat. His hands seized Finn, one tangling in his hair, the other clamping around his waist, yanking him against his body.
Theron deepened the kiss, forcing Finn's lips apart, his tongue plunging inside.
It was exactly what Finn had planned. The total loss of control.
But then something went wrong. Horribly wrong.
As Theron's mouth devoured his, as his strong body pressed against him, a hot, shameful flicker of arousal shot through Finn. It was a purely physical reaction. A traitorous, involuntary response from his body.
He was supposed to be the one in control. But for a split second, his body had responded to the man he hated.
* * *
Theron
The touch of that soft mouth on his broke something in him. He'd lost and in that loss, he found freedom.
He broke the kiss only to crush his mouth back against Vale's, harder this time. He gripped the back of Vale's head, holding him in place.
He lifted him and slammed him back against a towering bookshelf. Books fell to the floor around them.
Vale let out a choked gasp, his hands scrabbling at Theron's shoulders. Theron pinned him there with his body, grinding his hips forward, letting him feel the hard ridge of his need.
"You did this," Theron growled against his mouth. "You. You walked into my house… you looked at me with those goddamn eyes…"
His hands were rough, desperate. He fumbled with the buttons on Vale's waistcoat, a growl of frustration in his throat, before he gave up and just ripped the shirt open.
He felt Vale's body go limp against the shelf. A surrender. A terrifying, possessiveness surged through Theron. He pulled back, his chest heaving. The library was silent except for their ragged breaths.
He had just committed an act that could see him ruined, ostracized, destroyed. And he had never felt more alive.
Vale was a beautiful wreck. His hair was a mess, his angelic face flushed, his mouth swollen and red. His torn shirt exposed the skin of his collarbone and the frantic pulse beating at the base of his throat.
His eyes were wide, dazed and luminous in the firelight.
Theron didn't see shock, fear or shame. He saw a mirror of his own chaotic emotions.