They clawed at him, trapping him, forcing him to remain in the abyss between lucidity and madness, to return to the place where he had spent months upon months of hell.
Prison.
So much of his life, gone. Stolen from him. He would not regain that time, nor would he recover the man he had been, before. Foolish and full of himself, believing he could take on a monster and emerge the victor.
The man who had sired him had proven him wrong. He had proven the monster Adrian could not slay.
The bastard was dead now. Cold comfort.
Knowing from experience that sleep would not come, he rose from the bed. Pain radiated up his leg. The injury, earned on one of the prison’s singularly torturous forms of punishment, the treadwheel, was at its stiffest and most painful upon first use and later in the evening, when he had been walking on it all day.
He reached for his walking stick, leaning heavily upon it as he thumped his way across the carpets and lit a lamp. Light flared over the guest chamber. The massive space was a far cry from the small cell where he had spent nearly every waking hour at Dunsworth.
He was more grateful than he could possibly convey to Northwich, who had worked tirelessly to see him released early and who had made certain his personal physician attended to Adrian’s poorly reset broken ankle. The brace the doctor had seen fashioned for him had been aiding him tremendously. Emerging from prison with nothing but the shreds of himself he had left behind had not been easy.
Hell, even talking had been difficult after the forced silence of Dunsworth.
When Longleigh had greased the right palms to see Adrian sent away to prison, he had made certain it was to the most vicious hellhole possible. The torture—and the ten thousand pounds held for him—had been the only parting gifts of the man who had sired him. Adrian had been unable to stomach so much as a ha’penny of Longleigh’s money for weeks after his release.
After the plan for his revenge had slowly come to life, he had realized he would need to use the funds or continue accepting the largesse of Northwich.
And that, his pride, long dormant, would not allow. Hospitality, yes. Money, no.
Adrian seized the handle of a pitcher of water and poured a measure into the wash basin. With a deep breath, he splashed water on his face. Its cooling and calming properties soothed some of the restlessness, quelled the jittery anxiety tightening like a coiled spring inside his chest. Fresh water was a luxury he had often been denied in prison. He did not think he would ever again take it for granted.
His hand shook as he dried his face.
He had left the prison behind, but his demons had followed him. He’d been a free man for several weeks now, and still the nightmares and the fears were as real and strong as if he were still trapped in the dormitory he had shared with dozens of fellow prisoners. He would have died there had not Northwich worked to see him released.
Likely, that was what Longleigh had intended.
A tidy answer to the problem of the bastard son who had become too much trouble for him to tolerate.
But he would not think of the duke now. The man was dead. He could no longer hurt Adrian. He could no longer hurt anyone, and thank Christ for that.
And Adrian? He was as free as he could be. Free and determined to see his son.
His demons could return to the devil for now. He dressed with care, though the hour was early. He would lose himself in Northwich’s library, as had become his habit on nights when the nightmares were too strong.
To his surprise, he found his host already ensconced within, a glass of brandy in hand, staring into the low, flickering flames in the hearth. It appeared that the duke had not yet gone to sleep.
“Good evening, Hastings,” Northwich said, raising his glass in mock salute though he did not rise. “Or is it morning now? I do not believe the mantel clock keeps proper time any longer.”
The reason for the timepiece’s failure became apparent as Adrian drew nearer. It lay in pieces on the bricks, shattered glass sparkling in the fire’s glow.
“It appears to have fallen from the mantel.”
“I threw it there,” Northwich said.
“Ah.” Adrian said nothing else, for he well understood the frustration and violence which could grow within a man.
“Brandy, Hastings?”
Sometimes, spirits eased the sharp edges inside him. Sometimes, it honed them and made them harsher.
“I am not certain if I should,” he said honestly. “The nightmares, you see.”
“What a pair we make, eh, old chap? Your nightmares drag you from sleep, and mine will not allow me to close my eyes. Have some brandy, won’t you? I loathe drinking alone.”
