“You go left, I’ll go right,” Benedict shouted through the fabric as he tied it across his lower face. He rushed inside, not turning to see if the other man followed his instructions. He didn’t need to—Wayland would find her if he couldn’t.
His heart pounded, outpacing his steps but barely. The smoke was heavier in this direction and despite his covering it slid down his throat, coating it like wicked molasses. His eyes burned, tears pooling in the corners.
Instinctively, he bent low as he rushed ahead, into the fire.
Heat rose with every crouched step. Sweat poured down his forehead into his eyes, washing out some of the soot, only to replace it with the sting of salt.
His gaze caught on his father’s study door—open.
“Tell me how you cheated!” His father’s vicious, vindictive voice carried over the rushing air, the crackling flames, the groaning wood.
Benedict forced his sluggish legs forward until finally, at last, he rounded the doorway.
Eliza!
Trapped between his father and the blaze, she was frightened and mussed, but alive and seemingly whole. In her hand was some sort of weapon Benedict couldn’t make out through the smoke. His beautiful, brave violet, saving herself when he could not. His arms ached to wrap around her, to spirit her out of this burning hell.
Flames licked at the curtains and ledgers along the wall beside his father’s overturned gaming table. Something in the next room crashed.
Eliza’s frightened gaze met his over his father’s shoulder. Her eyes widened in hope, or something more. She held his gaze fora moment, then snapped her attention pointedly to something beside the door.
The whip.
Benedict fumbled blindly for it. His hand met the bone handle, still shockingly cool in the feverish room.
“Move!” he ordered, voice deathly steady.
Slowly, his father turned, clutching his wrist to his chest. Surprise filled his icy expression before settling into something cruel.
“You think if you save her, she’ll want you?”
“Move,” Benedict repeated, shifting his hand, drawing his father’s gaze to the lash in his fist. “Just move. We can all leave now. There’s still time.”
“You mean to choose her over me, over your own blood?”
“I would choose her over everyone. I’m asking you not to make me.”
“That was always your problem—too spineless to honor your duty the moment it becomes inconvenient.”
Without thought, the way his father had so many times before, Benedict raised the whip.
And brought it down to crack across his father’s shoulder. Ambrose cried out, stumbled away, and landing on his knees with a loudthunk. A pitiful groan fell from his lips.
Eliza raced forward, careened into Benedict’s free arm, and collapsed against his chest. “We have to go,” she said, before she pulled back and tugged him toward the doorway.
They made it a single step toward the hall before Benedict realized it was impenetrable—a wall of ash. The fire had found their excuse for a library in the next room. Smoke barricaded the door, darker than the midnight sky.
He spun them around.
“What?”
“This way,” he ordered. Together they hurried to the window. “Behind me.” He urged her back and recited a silent prayer as he brought the whip handle down against the glass before he shoved them both back.
The inferno, tasting new air, surged toward the window and into the night, taking the remaining panes with it.
Leaving an empty frame.
Benedict sagged in relief. He allowed himself a breath, Eliza’s soft touch soothing down his shoulder.
