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Rafe’s eyes fell shut. Bloody fucking hell.
“Is that all right?” Derek asked.
Rafe’s entire body shook, labored breaths surging from him. His pulse fluttered at a maddening pace in his neck, and nausea assaulted him. It was as though he’d just been sprinting for his life. He dipped his chin weakly, eyes peeking open. Derek wasn’t breathing heavily in the slightest, even from heaving up Rafe’s bulky frame.
Derek had the water again and lifted it to Rafe’s lips. Rafe automatically tried to reach for it, but…nothing.
The glass met Rafe’s lips, and as soon as the blessed water hit his lips, he tried to consume as much of it as he could. His eyes sank shut. Water. His tongue was heavy, his mouth chalky and raw, like he’d just spent the past week licking the desert sand. God, he could drink forever. But then the water was pulled away from him.
“Easy. The last thing I want is you tossing up your accounts on me.”
Some water dribbled down Rafe’s chin, and Derek quickly wiped it away with the cuff of his sleeve. Fuck. Rafe was like an invalid. And he had a horrible feeling that that meant…he’d been in a very bad way. An almost-didn’t-survive bad way.
“Not that you have anything to toss up,” Derek murmured.
He placed the glass down and just stared at Rafe in awe. And Rafe knew, without a doubt, that meant his suspicions were correct. He’d almost died.
“I cannot believe it—” Derek's voice broke again.
Rafe’s throat tightened. His best mate had truly thought he was going to lose Rafe. But Rafe had made Derek a promise.
I will always be here.
Fuck if death was going to get in the way of that.
“Brothers,” he said hoarsely.
Derek nodded, mouth pressed tight as the emotions he battled rippled over his features. “Brothers.”
Walking over to the bellpull, Derek called over his shoulder, “Prepare yourself, Raffy. The house is about to come running. The Duke has awoken, after all.”
A small smile pulled at Rafe’s lips.
40
Theo
A throat cleared, drawing Theo’s attention to the doorway of her office.
A footman stepped inside, carrying a silver tray. “A letter for you, Ms. Dawson.”
She thanked the young man, eyes falling to the address. Her heart tripped over itself. It came from the Duke’s estate in London. An odd hollowness settled in her stomach. The handwriting wasn’t one she recognized, was not the one she’d become familiar with over the years. She placed the letter on her desk and swallowed hard.
He hadn’t even been able to pen her himself?
Perry’s gaze burned into her profile. She drew in a breath and slid a glare his way. “What is it, Perry?”
“Who’s the letter from?”
“The Duke’s London residence,” she said succinctly, and turned back to her work.
“Have you not been champing at the bit for a response from His Grace? The last letter you penned him, I feared your quill was going to scratch right through the paper with how aggressive your scrawl was.”
Her mouth flattened, and a tinge of embarrassment hit her. She still couldn’t believe she’d written that. And posted it. She’d regretted it immediately. But the damage has been done. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t written back himself.
“Noooooo!”
Theo and Perry jolted at the roar that came from somewhere within the castle. Gooseflesh immediately washed over her, a cold seeping into her bones. That one word had been tortured. A man being gutted. A voice she recognized.
