THE VIOLENCE OF LOYALTY
ERIC
The castle has gone from a haunted asylum to a five-star resort. Extended family and friends have migrated for a week of celebrations, completely unaware of the darker happenings. It makes me think of when Francesca said they perfume their rot to hide that stench, and that’s exactly what’s happening here.
What with all these chatter-filled halls and cousins clumping together in different drawing rooms, I can hardly believe it. Dressed in autumn knits, smelling of old ambition, they strut around like they’re on the set forSheffolk’s Bestmagazine shoot. Some bow when they see me; some even try to engage in conversation, but I’m deaf to it all because I’m on a mission.
Francesca’s getting ready for the day, oblivious to the fact that my morning’s been ruined by the message that flashed on her screen.
Ew #5
I bet you haven’t been properly ridden since Gabe.
I’ll be out by the stables in an hour or so. Lemme show you how to mount again, promise you’ll enjoy it.
She handed me the phone with that brittle laugh, talking about how this is what she has to deal with—from men who call themselvesnoble. Irritated by the vulgarity of it, she left him on read, just like all the others. But what fucks me up the most is that he’s number five, as though this is some revolving door of degenerates waiting to have her after Gabriel. Just another eye-roll, and she was over it because it’s normal.
It’s not normal, though.
For me, that filthy message sealed my suspicions.
West wing, just a few doors down from my own room. My jaw clenches when I see it, and I don’t bother with any preamble. Just shove through hard enough that the hinges screech.
Charlie Henderson jumps like a boy caught wanking by his mother, elbow banging into the window where he stands. He chokes mid-drag and drops the vape in his hand, coughing so hard I hear something rattling. That sickly citrus coils through the air, encountering the memory that stayed wrapped around my lungs all night.
He’s dressed head to toe in riding gear—boots polished, russet gloves snug, tan breeches and a pretentious black show jacket. The outfit certainly doesn’t match his act; the whole thing reads like a bad parody of aristocracy, especially when he hacks up more of that cheap scent. Surprise hits once he recognises me, then realisation.
I step in, shutting the door behind me. “Morning, Charles.”
He waves the smoke away, his mouth trying to shape an excuse, but I’ve already closed the distance. His back slams into the stone wall, and the sound makes little noise, as though Redford herself muffles it.
“Prince Eric,” he croaks. “What brings you?—”
“You watched us by the tree.” His hand creeps towards my chest, like he’s going to try and calm me, but I grab it and pin it to the wall. The glove creaks, and he bites down on a whimper. “Why were you there?”
He swallows. “Taking a walk. Last I checked, that wasn’t illegal.”
“Yeah? Then why does your breath smell like the path to her cottage last night?”
“You’ve got it wrong?—”
“Got it wrong,” I parrot, voice sharpening. “Oh, you mean ‘wrong’ in the way you happened to take a walk close to her home? Or maybe ‘wrong’ like how you stood there listening to her moan, dragging on that vape while you fed yourself on her. That’s not it?”
Charlie doesn’t answer, and it’s the first smart thing he’s done since I entered the room. One wrong move from him and I’m going to repeat Milan’s actions. There’s a haziness to the blue in his eyes; through it I can almost see the vision of what he’s witnessed.
He saw me push her back against the tree, saw her laughing into my mouth and teasing me. He heard her moan when I found that spot beneath her ear and listened to her whimper. His perversity stole that moment and turned it into contraband for him to abuse.
“What the fuck is going on?” he blurts suddenly, eyes darting over my shoulder.
For a second I think he’s addressing me, still playing his game and acting oblivious. But then I hear it. A slow drag, something heavy on stone.
I turn to see the built-in cupboards thrown wide open, showcasing a fashion line of outfits that shouldn’t belong to a guest. At least, not one who’s only staying for a week. Fuckerpacked for a month-long pageant. Too many suit jackets and boots. And then I narrow in on the movement: a suitcase is being pulled across the floor by a mouldy-smelling source. A still-packed suitcase.
Charlie’s face empties of all bravado, gasping out, “Jesus fuck.”
My fist releases his shirt because the ghostly girl has grabbed my full attention. “Tommy, what are you doing?”
Charlie scuttles back at my question like I’ve grown a second head, throwing himself in the farthest corner. “Stop—enough. Get out!”
