Cranford turned to his steward. “If I fall, kill him.”
The man paled. “My lord?—”
“I said what I said.”
Johnathan did not blink.
He simply turned his gaze forward and waited for the count.
“One,” said the steward.
Johnathan took a step.
“Two.”
Another.
They walked in rhythm, their boots crunching against grass, each pace a heartbeat, each heartbeat a drumroll.
“Nine.”
Johnathan’s fingers adjusted on the pistol grip.
“Ten.”
They turned.
Cranford raised his weapon immediately.
Johnathan hesitated—just a second.
Long enough.
The shot rang out, sharp and brutal, echoing through the morning stillness.
Pain exploded through Johnathan’s shoulder, but he did not fall.
He raised his pistol, despite the scream of muscles and the warmth of blood sliding beneath his coat.
And he aimed.
Cranford stood, arrogant and composed.
Johnathan looked at him, saw every cruel word, every cold command, every choice that had stolen Frances’s agency.
He saw himself in Cranford—not as he was now, but as he might have become. If he had never left his father’s home. If he had let bitterness rule him. If he had never remembered what it meant to love without possession.
Johnathan slowly lowered his pistol.
The hush fractured with soft gasps.
The steward stammered, “You—you are not firing?”
“I have already won,” Johnathan said.
Cranford’s mouth twisted into a furious snarl. “Coward.”
“No,” Johnathan said, turning away. “I have nothing to prove.”
