The Duke pressed both palms to the edge of his desk, looming over Rhys like a judge preparing to pass sentence on him.
“Do you know why I punish you?”
Rhys’s lips trembled. “Because I made a mess?”
The Duke’s lip curled. “Because you’re my son.” He leaned in so close that Rhys could smell the wine, the cigar, the expensive soap that never seemed to wash away the anger. “And because one day, God help us, you will be a duke. And if you cannot even keep your shirt clean, you will never be fit to bear my title.”
He turned away as if disgusted by the sight of him, then paused.
“On your knees,” he ordered. “Now.”
Rhys dropped, clasping his hands together to stop them from shaking.
“Next time you embarrass me, you’ll kneel on rice until you remember your place.”
The Duke twisted his ear once more for good measure, then stalked out, the scent of him lingering long after he was gone.
Rhys stayed where he was, kneeling, staring at the ink stain blooming on his sleeve, until the light faded and the cold crept in.
He woke up in the dark, gasping, sweat plastering the sheets to his chest. It took him a full minute to remember that he was no longer eight, that the house was his now, the power and the memory both.
He kicked aside the sheets and swung his legs to the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs like it meant to punch a hole through. He pressed a palm to his face and groaned, low and rough.
He found his dressing gown by the window. The sky was neither black nor blue, but some miserable in-between, the world undecided whether to start over.
There would be no sleep now.
He opened the window, tasted the bite of spring chill, and breathed as deeply as he could. The nightmare clung to him like smoke.
He needed to walk.
He didn’t bother with boots or a cravat. He padded barefoot down the stairs, avoiding the spots that creaked, though there was no one awake to mind. Past the empty morning room and the locked study, past the lingering ghosts of old servants who had never dared to meet his eyes.
The back hall was shadowed and cold, the flagstones numbing his feet. He pressed on, letting the chill punish him for a while.
Outside, dew had already formed on the grass. He kept to the path, his shoulders hunched against the air, his mind a blank slate except for the white-hot flare of his father’s voice, the sting in his ear.
He wandered, unseeing, until the ground began to slope upward. Only then did he realize where his feet had carried him.
The family mausoleum waited at the hill, stone and iron, nothing lovely about it. Only a madman would keep the dead so close. But that was his father’s doing, not his. He’d kept them here on purpose, as if proximity to the dead would keep the living in line.
Rhys had buried his father himself. Not by choice, but because the undertaker was a coward and the vicar was a drunk, andsomeone had to do it right. He remembered lowering the casket, the satisfying thud it made when it hit the dirt. He’d made certain the stone above was plain and alone, on the opposite side of his mother.
He found himself drawn to it now.
Rhys stood at the grave, his jaw tight and his nails digging into his palm, staring hard at the inscription:Bentley Alexander Harken, 8th Duke of Wylds, 1746–1810.
Nothing more.
He cleared his throat, not sure who he was talking to—his father, or himself, or the cold stone in between.
“You got what you wanted,” he muttered. “The name. The line. The control.” He let out a shaky laugh. “But it’s over. I won’t have it on my hands, too.”
He stared at the blank slab, rage and relief and regret twisting inside him.
“I know what you wanted from me. I know you spent every day trying to sear it into my bones. You broke her for it. You nearly broke me. But you’re not here anymore—Iam. AndIdecide what happens next.”
He knelt, digging his toes into the dewy grass, refusing to let his voice shake. “I will see this place restored. I will put it right,every tenant and fence post and leaking roof. But the rest… the rest dies with you. I won’t chain anyone else to this name, not like you did. Not ever.”
