Page 24

His nostrils flared. His bootsteps thudded against the carpet as he turned down the wing that held his chambers. He’d been eleven. Eleven. The first time.

Fury built in his chest, crawled up his throat, and more than anything, he wanted to let the roar free.

But the roar died a quick death, as did his steps.

He stopped short, attention falling on the blond woman standing before the door to his chambers.

They stood there. Frozen. He braced himself as she slowly took him in. He didn’t miss the way she hid her shaking hands in her skirts. Didn’t miss the way the color slowly drained from her face.

He knew what she was seeing.

Him.

Rafe was the spitting image of his father. Though Rafe was bigger, ironically.

If only the Duke could see him now. If only Rafe could have given the bastard what he’d deserved.

“Raphael,” she whispered.

His heart twinged. Fuck. He’d wanted to avoid this interaction, thought perhaps he’d be lucky enough to. He hadn’t ever thought she’d seek him out.

At his silence, she cleared her throat awkwardly. “My apologies. Your Grace.”

His eyes fell shut. How many times had he heard her say that before? Begging apology, the same fear lacing the words now that they did over a decade ago. Because she didn’t know: He wasn’t ever going to be like his monster of a father.

He met her gaze. “Raphael.”

Her smile was a tremulous one as she nodded. A little color came back to her cheeks. She was still as beautiful as ever—of course she was. His father would have accepted nothing less. There was a slightly more mature cast to her face, but that wasn’t the most notable difference. It was the soft lines on her face. The ones that spoke of laughter. Of joy. None of those had existed before.

Those things couldn’t have ever existed when his father had been alive.

“I see you ended up caught in the storm. Would…Would you care to join us for dinner tonight?”

His gaze fell to the floor. He could think of very few things he wanted to do less. That dining hall…the things he’d witnessed there… Every room in this castle held memories. Nightmares. Ones Rafe didn’t want to relive.

He didn’t understand how she could stand it. How she could live here and face those same memories every day.

“Perhaps tea then? Afterward, in my sitting room?”

Rafe’s gaze snapped up. “You’re still in the mistress’s chambers?”

Her mouth popped open, panic flashing across her features as no words surfaced. “I-I can have my things moved. I’ll have the servants see to it straight⁠—”

He shook his head and fought hard to soften his voice. “No. You misunderstand. I had thought you’d have wanted to seek new chambers immediately following…” The Duke’s death.

Rafe knew the woman before him had faced even worse horrors than he himself had. In those exact chambers.

She lifted her chin. “His memory doesn’t deserve my fear. I refuse to be cowed by him from the grave.”

She was stronger than Rafe.

He knew he couldn’t visit the duchess’s chambers. Never would be able to. Not when it was filled with memories of his mother. The roots of the ever-present pain in his chest grew deeper at the thought. Thorns slicing into his heart. Making sure he never ever forgot.

“Tea,” he managed. “Elsewhere.”

“Of course. Perhaps the drawing room in this wing?”

He nodded.