Stark caught his right arm first, and as Benedict reared back with his left, Enys grabbed that. Benedict kicked at that man, hitting his shin with a thud. The man groaned, his grip weakening, but not enough. Benedict was used to fighting a singular man with fists; he’d never employed his feet, nor fought two at once.
Stark, fearing a kick of his own, yanked Benedict’s arm behind his back before forcing him to his knees with the entirety of his weight. Benedict’s right arm twisted, contorting when Enys was slow to lower Benedict’s other arm. He joined Stark in forcing Benedict to his knees.
They pinned him there, kneeling before his father, with his arms wrenched behind him. Benedict jerked in their hold, earning only a punishing, bruising grip. Sensing defeat, he looked toward his father.
And for the first time, he felt nothing—no love, no affection, no respect, nor fear—only an absence, a void where there should have been…something.
Slowly, deliberately, his father pulled the whip from behind his back. And still Benedict felt nothing.
Ambrose walked toward him, brow furrowed and lips parted. His gaze was eager, hungry.
Benedict’s numbness remained. His gaze found the little violet—its pot smashed on the stone—but the plant itself was still whole.
Even his father’s footsteps, the grit crunching beneath boots on flagstone, did not raise Benedict’s pulse.
His father rounded him, and Benedict took pride—his spine didn’t so much as prickle. The men holding his arms yanked them away from his back and held them outstretched on both sides.
The next moment, though he heard the familiar, sinister whistle, Benedict didn’t tense. The furious crack didn’t earn his wince. And the snap of the lash against his flesh didn’t burn.
Nor did the next, though Benedict recognized dully that Ambrose timed it to perfection with the secondary bloom of agony—a particular talent of his father.
Over and over, the leather sang though the air. His father’s breaths grew ever more ragged.
Dimly, Benedict knew his back was on fire—that the whip was eating through already scarred flesh. But his gaze remained on the violet as he drew strength from its determined, delicate roots.
Minutes, hours, days later, the clang of bone against stone broke through Benedict’s reverie. His head turned. He bit back a wince when the motion pulled on his furious flesh—still a distant sensation.
Ambrose was bent over, clutching his wrist with the other hand. He was… frail… weak.
Mortal.
Benedict’s laugh surprised even him. But once it began, it bubbled up from deep inside and refused to be snuffed out.
“What is so damned amusing?” his father spat as he made his way around Benedict’s still trapped, still kneeling frame.
“You broke—and before me. Another failure.”
His father growled, hatred turning his gaze to stone. It was another moment like the one they’d shared in the study—a fundamental shift in their relationship. Benedict would pay for those words the same way he’d paid for the last.
But his father had no more threats left to make. Benedict’s entire life had been carefully orchestrated to please the fragile man before him. He’d done everything, destroyed everything his father had ever asked. Benedict had shattered any hope of a future with the woman he might love—hell, he wasn’t confident he even knew what love was—all because of this man.
“Don’t you understand? There’s nothing left. My inheritance is in ruins—because of you. You took my mother, my childhood, my future. You’ve scarred me, body and soul. There’s nothing left to break.Thisis your legacy,Father. Beautiful, isn’t it?” he spat the last words at his father’s feet.
“Careful, boy. There are still a few strips of your back I haven’t peeled.”
Benedict locked eyes with him—a challenge. One Ambrose wasn’t prepared to meet. A breath, two, then he turned and rounded the table toward the door.
But Benedict had forgotten one thing—the violet smashed across the floor.
Before he could force a sound of protest through his lips, his father’s hessian boot squashed the delicate petals. Ambrose continued on, not glancing, not even slowing. Benedict’s heart stopped as he stared at the little flower, crumpled against the stone.
Ambrose exited the greenhouse. Stark and Enys continued to hold Benedict back, though they needn’t have bothered. Hisfather had, in fact, successfully broken Benedict in the end. And he hadn’t even realized it.
There was no doubt in Benedict’s mind that his father had forgotten the precious violet. If he’d remembered its existence, he would have crushed it with more fanfare, relished the destruction, reveled in Benedict’s devastation.
But he hadn’t. Because the bloom Benedict had pinned all his hopes on meant less than nothing to his father.
Stark dropped his arm and moved in front of Benedict, then reared a foot back. His boot landed in the center of Benedict’s stomach, leaving him gasping, gagging. Enys released his other arm at the same moment, leaving their victim to flop to the ground in a pathetic, bleeding heap.
