“I do,” Mason said simply. “And you know I’ll follow it to the end with you.”
Robert’s eyes flicked to him.
“It ends soon.” He said it like a prophecy.
Mason stepped forward slightly, enough for the firelight to hit the edge of his face. “And your wife?”
Robert turned his gaze back to the flames then to the untouched second glass on the table.
“She doesn’t know. And she won’t.” He paused. “Not until I’m sure of who I can protect… and who I’ll have to destroy.”
There was silence again. Mason did not speak. The fire cracked faintly. Robert reached for the third drink, not because he needed it but because it grounded him.
And then, almost as an afterthought, he murmured, “She looked like a goddess today.”
It was the only unguarded thing he had said in days.
Mason didn’t respond, but his small smile said more than words could. Robert let the liquor roll on his tongue this time before swallowing. The taste of oak and smoke dulled none of his awareness.
The day still wasn’t over. Even when the night sunk deep into the halls of his estate, it would not end then either. The shadows were always there, omnipresent… shadows of ghosts that refused to stay buried.
The laughter and clinking of glasses from the parlor were muffled the moment Evelyn stepped into the hallway. The soft tapping of her satin slippers echoed against the polished floors, and for once, she welcomed the silence. The evening had been long, filled with congratulatory smiles, rehearsed pleasantries, and the weight of a hundred eyes studying her every movement.
She needed air. She needed stillness.
The nearest powder room was just around the corner, and she reached it with a quick, graceful step. The door creaked slightly as she pushed it open.
At first, she thought the room was empty, until the scent of rose powder hit her, a little too heavily applied. And then she sawher.
Matilda stood by the mirror with her back slightly turned and her sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. She was delicately brushing powder along her left wrist.
Evelyn froze. She felt as if someone had gripped her by the heart. She could barely look away.
The bruises were unmistakable. It was a sickly palette of purple and yellow, as if painted by violence itself. Even under the layer of makeup and lace, they were vivid.
Matilda jumped at the sound of the door closing, hurriedly tugging her sleeve down and giving a smile that didn’t reach her wide, frightened eyes.
“Evelyn,” she said quickly, with her breath catching. “I… I didn’t think anyone was in need of the room?—”
“What happened to your wrist?” Evelyn asked, her voice a whisper but firm. Her own reflection looked pale in the mirror behind her sister.
Matilda’s smile faltered. Her lips trembled.
“I tripped,” she said too quickly. “On the stair. You know how I can be, clumsy as ever?—”
Evelyn stepped closer. “Matilda.”
Her sister faltered. Her hand went to her wrist protectively, as though shielding it from further exposure. And then, the door burst open with a sudden force that didn’t belong in a woman’s powder room. In fact, his very presence did not belong in a woman’s powder room, and both women felt it.
“Ah,” said the Viscount, stepping into the room as if he owned it. His face was all polite concern, but there was something in his eyes that turned Evelyn’s blood to ice. “Forgive me for the intrusion, ladies. I was told my wife had been gone for some time. I feared she might be unwell.”
His gaze moved between them, calculating the situation and his odds against it. “You know how delicate Matilda can be.”
Evelyn said nothing. Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown.
At her side, Matilda had gone very still. “I—I was just powdering my face,” she said quickly. Her voice was unusually high, airy, and small. “I didn’t mean to worry you, Laurence.”
Laurence. The name fell from her lips like an apology.
