Hugstead wasn’t one of them—the hordes of nobles who flocked to the Den. He came to do business. He didn’t gamble, didn’t drink to excess, and he didn’t mask his intentions. For a lord born to privilege, he chose to use his power for good. He and Felicity would get along well.
Tristan lit the oil lamp on the entry table then set it down quickly before he decided to throw it against the wall and burn this damn building down. Rage pumped through his body, his stomach churninglike the ocean in a storm. His thoughts crashed out of his control against his feelings, and he didn’t know what to do.
He was lying to himself. He sat on the small, worn sofa and hunched over his knees, holding his head in his hands.
The right thing to do was obvious. Let her go now and tell her to marry the honorable, wealthy, respected man and carry on her life in comfort. That was what he’d tell any other woman to do. He’d tell his own sister to marry a man like Hugstead over a penniless, selfish blackguard like him. His feelings didn’t matter. What he wanted didn’t matter.
Yet he couldn’t let her go. Every minute spent with her felt like his last. And he clung, fingers digging into the razor’s edge of this cliffside, knowing eventually he’d fall fast, hard, to his death, for her.
Then he’d climb back up. Broken, bloody, and in love with her still. He knew love. His mother and father gave an example every day of their lives. Tristan was born into a home with love soaked into the walls. Lark Hall was the beating heart of his family, built on love. From generation to generation. That is why his great-grandfather, grandfather, father, and now he, would fight to his last breath to keep it. But would it be worth it if he didn’t have the woman he loved to share it with?
Tristan pushed to his feet. He reached for the bottle on the sideboard and yanked out the cork. The whisky burned, swallow after swallow, drowning his heart in fire. He gasped as he finished the bottle, putting his hand over his chest. He’d done worse things, hadn’t he? In pursuit of claiming his home he’d forsaken his moral code, lied, cheated, stolen. But he couldn’t justtakeFlick, toss her over his shoulder like a barbarian and carry her back to Lark Hall. He had to have the home first, then he might have something worthy to offer her.
What would she say? Did she care for him enough to give up on her quest for a powerful husband and safety? Would she leaveeverything she’d fought for behind for him?
Tristan threw the bottle, glass shattering across the floor. He stumbled toward his bed and tore off his jacket and shirt. He fell onto the bed, not bothering with his breeches and boots.
He had nothing to offer her but his heart and that wasn’t enough. She deserved so much more. Sheneededso much more.
Tristan woke when a piercing beam of sunlight poked at his eye, drawing him from the depths of a restless, black, whisky slumber. He rolled over, flopping on his back as he dug a knuckle into his temple where pain pumped through his veins in a steady beat. He pushed himself up, staggering to his feet and finding his basin and pitcher empty of water, because he didn’t waste coin on a maid. He leaned over the stand and looked at the man in the mirror’s speckled reflection. He looked like he felt, and he felt like he’d died, been buried, and just dug himself out of the grave. Minus the dirt. The dirt was metaphorical.
Tristan shook himself awake, then dressed in clean clothes. He got water from the pump outside and returned to his room to clean himself up. Once presentable, he checked his watch. He was late. It was already half past eight and he usually arrived at the Den by seven.
Tristan walked four blocks before hopping on a series of carts to reach the Den. He walked in the back door, feeling a decade older than when he went to sleep. He snuck through the kitchen and pilfered a scone. Having something in his stomach helped catch the tea and whisky he got from the bar on the main floor.
Just as he finished his tea and his faculties were coming into focus, there was a disturbance at the main door.
Raphael, a member of the wolf pack, hurried past.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked. The man stopped, turned to Tristan, and sighed in relief.
“There are two men at the door demanding to see a Miss Brandon. I told them repeatedly there is no one here by that name, but theyrefuse to leave. One of them is clearly a priest or something, and he’s calling on God to smite this evil refuge of demons.”
Tristan went cold. “A priest? Who is the other man?”
“He has not given a name.”
“What does he look like?”
“A fair-headed man. Built like a barrel.”
Tristan nodded. “Tell them if they wait a moment, Mrs. Dove-Lyon will meet with them shortly.”
He raised both brows. “Will she?”
“I have a feeling she will.”
Tristan headed up to the second floor and through the servants’ door, arriving swiftly at her parlor. He knocked once and waited.
“Enter.”
Tristan entered, relieved to find her alone, and closed the door.
“Are you only just arriving?” she asked.
He skipped the preamble. “Her father is here, and I suspect herfiancéas well,” he said with derision.
“Ring for Milly,” she said.
