The pain felt good. Blood tasted bitter and sharp in his mouth, and he spat to one side.
Perhaps he’d lost a tooth.
That would be good. Fine. Better than his miserable existence of sitting at home and waiting for Thalia to come back, only to realize she would not be returning any time soon.
He had frightened her away, made her feel as though she had no place in his life, and now this pain was redemption, of sorts.
He could not fix the situation with Thalia, but at least someone was punishing him for it.
Another blow slammed into his ribs, and he staggered back. The room twisted and spun out of control. His breath turned to fire in his chest.
Good, good.
A red haze covered his vision as he looked back at the man facing him.
“Fight back, coward,” the man spat.
Maxwell smiled, knowing blood covered his teeth, knowing he half looked like a monster. That matched how he felt: a monster through and through, chasing away the best thing to have happened to him in his sorry existence.
Maxwell swung, knowing the blow was too slow and that the other man would duck under, which was what he did. Momentum had him stepping forward, unable to stop the other man’s fist from connecting with his stomach.
Agony.
He grunted; the breath knocked from his lungs entirely. The sharp slice of pain from his ribs indicated that something—possibly something vital—had broken.
He ought to surrender. As a second son, he always knew when to surrender; it was a skill his brother might never have learned. But surrendering now, when he still had so much penance to pay, seemed foolish.
This wasn’t all there could be.
He needed to live and breathe this pain for it to become a part of him. Only then could he consider it punishment enough. It soothed some part of him to think he was getting what he deserved.
Thalia would never do this. Her punishment came in her absence, which she probably thought was no punishment at all. No doubt she believed that he cared nothing for her, because to her, it was love or nothing. Either he loved her, or he didn’t care if she lived or died. Her unhappiness gave her no room for nuance, but she did not understand.
By not loving her, he wasprotectingher.
By keeping his distance and not finding her now—even though he could, if he wanted; he was a Duke with resources to his name, and he would have no difficulty in locating her—he was doing her a favor.
If he loved her, he would hurt her. His father was proof of that. Some men could love in an uncomplicated way, but his family had never been uncomplicated.
Hewas not uncomplicated. There was a darkness in him that came out at times, like now, when he was being beaten to a pulp.
The pain was immediate, and it was satisfying. There was no distant, vague, undefined yet unbearable ache of parting and emptiness. No, there was this sharp crushing of bones.
The next blow had him crashing to the ground. He landed hard, his head slamming against the floorboards, and the strength drained from his limbs.
He was done.
“Any more, and I’ll kill him,” his opponent said in disgust, spitting somewhere beside Maxwell.
Maxwell closed his eyes and let himself feel. In a moment, he would rise and return home to the empty house he called home.
Every breath ached.
He thought of Thalia.
Someone hauled him up, and he hunched over, protecting his tender chest. He wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand and awkwardly pulled his shirt on before staggering to the door.
Then he was out on the street, waving for a carriage to take him back home, praying that Lydia saw nothing when he finally got there.
