Chapter 30
Thirty
Damien
Though my employment contract stipulates I’m off duty on the weekends, I have never actually taken advantage of that time.
After all, what would I do?
Make the three-hour drive to Wyngate? Visit the friends I haven’t kept up with? Spend time with the brothers whom I’ve pushed away? Free time was dangerous; it left too much time for thinking, and being left alone with my thoughts was the last thing I wanted.
With the break-in, the upgrades being completed, and those disgusting letters sent to Blair after the pictures were published, I told myself I should stay close. Then, as our relationship drifted from obsession to something else entirely, I’ve felt disinclined to leave for very different reasons.
This morning, however, when Blair cheerfully informed me Summer would arrive soon—all but sprinting out the cottage door to go meet her—I found myself unexpectedly confronted with an entire Saturday to myself.
The worst of Thornhurst’s security concerns have been addressed. I don’t need to stay on the property every minute of every day.
Without a real plan, I paused only to send Blair a voice memo with a heads-up that I was leaving, and double—then triple—checking all the sensors and alarms were online, before I got into my seldom-used personal car, and left.
It wasn’t until I was halfway to Port Briar that I realized what my intention was.
Then, when I did, I was tempted to turn around and return safely to my pattern of avoidance.
I didn’t, though. Something kept me moving forward, even as the knot of guilt and regret inside me pulled tighter and tighter with every mile I drove.
My brother’s aging, neo-Gothic townhouse is situated on the corner of a quiet, tree-lined street, only a few blocks from Orwick University and insulated from Port Briar’s hectic, downtown district.
I pause when I get out of my car, staring across the quiet lane at the familiar structure, struck by a rush of memories.
The stone facade, crawling ivy, and iron handrails leading up to the glossy black door look exactly as they did when Ben and Leo lived here together during university.
My younger brothers coexisted very comfortably, united in their complete disinterest in socializing or leaving the house for anything other than class.
They’d been annoyingly reluctant to get into much trouble, but I was determined they leave with a few memories and succeeded in necessitating the Palace Press Corp’s involvement on at least two occasions.
Those few years we’d all lived in Port Briar were brief, but happy.
I’d been the first to leave, heading north to my first officer assignment, and eager to truly step out from the shadow of the Ashwell family for the first time in my life. Ben followed me the year after, recalled to Wyngate and to his duties as a working royal.
Leo stayed.
Port Briar might have been a stopover for Ben and me, but our youngest brother had found his home. He collected degrees in art history, chemistry, and conservation before accepting a full-time faculty position at the university and settling down for a quiet life in academia.
He never left the townhouse.
He never married or had a significant romantic relationship, as far as I’m aware.
He walks the same path, takes the same lunch, and exists mainly within the same four-block radius as he has for decades.
It might seem grim to some, but Leo disentangled himself from the Ashwell family in a way Ben or I never have. He found a place where he can excel, and, of us three, I believe he’s the most free.
The distance between us, I could almost stand, but since Leo’s unannounced visit to Thornhurst…
I hate how we left things. In the back of my mind, I’ve begun to accept the only true way out of this, but coming clean and telling my brothers everything—even if it means they hate me for it—isn’t something I’m ready to do.
So, why am I here?
Shaking myself, I shove my keys into my back pocket and cross the road, jogging up the stone steps to ring the bell before I can convince myself not to.
There’s a good chance he isn’t even at home.
Leo’s obsession with his work certainly isn’t limited to business hours, and after a moment passes, with no signs of life within the house, I’ve accepted this is the case.
I’m just on the point of turning back toward my car—feeling foolish for even attempting this—when the door is yanked open abruptly, and I find myself looking at my youngest brother.
Leo’s eyes widen. “Dam,” he greets me, his tone lifted in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
If only I knew.
I smile weakly. “If you’re busy—”
“Come in,” Leo interrupts, sounding surprised but pleased, and steps hurriedly out of the way to let me inside.
My shoulders are stiff as I move over the threshold, casting a look around at the familiar space.
The decor, at least, has changed a lot.
Originally decorated at the behest of Leo’s late mother, the family-owned property was once filled with many posh, ugly wallpapers and uncomfortable pieces of antique furniture. Now, all that is gone, and instead, the house boasts evidence of my brother’s one true love: really old art.
An eclectic assortment of paintings occupies nearly every inch of wall space in the narrow entryway. There are even more leaning against the baseboards, with sheets of foam and vellum paper carefully situated between each of the antique frames, protecting them from damage.
The front door closes, and Leo casts me a slight smile when I catch his eye. “Come through,” he says, already passing me by, and leads the way into the dimly lit hall—lined with even more art—which takes us into the sitting area.
Admittedly, his mother wouldn’t have approved of any of Leo’s modifications, but this room… This room alone would’ve made the dearly departed queen depart even earlier from sheer shock.
Even I, who is well used to Leo’s eccentricities, am brought up short, staring.
Apparently seeing no need for ordinary household comforts—like a television or couch—Leo has now dispensed with such frivolities.
Instead, the room is now cut in half by what appears to be a giant, white tent.
Though I can’t see through the tarp-like walls, the space is lit, and classical music plays quietly from a speaker somewhere inside.
The quiet drone of an air filtration system is the only other noise in the room as Leo moves over to a table that’s crammed against the far wall, hitting the “on” switch of an electric kettle.
Fucking hell.
“Leo,” I begin, hovering in the doorway as I take in the scene before me. “What’s going on?”
My brother blinks, following my gaze to the tent, as if only now realizing it’s there. “Oh, this? I set it up a few months ago. I thought it would be prudent to have a controlled environment to get work done at home.”
Prudent isn’t a word I would use to describe this development.
Scrubbing a hand over my stubble, I watch as Leo hurries over to take a stack of papers off a worn leather armchair, dropping them onto the floor beside it with a smile.
“Sit down,” he offers cheerfully, as if this is all very normal. “I’m glad you came.” I don’t move, however, torn between guilt and trepidation as I try to decide how best to handle this.
My youngest brother’s ups and downs were always severe. Even before college, Leo swung between periods of wild efficiency and hyper-focus to deep depression and isolation, with no apparent trigger.
No one in the family was particularly surprised by his diagnosis of bipolar two, and I suspect it was my father and his wife’s primary motivation for permitting Leo to escape the royal institution for a life in academics.
He’s been medicated and stable—or, mostly stable, anyway—for a long time, and I’d clearly taken it for granted.
“Leo,” I begin carefully, edging further into the room, as my brother drags a folding chair out from behind the bookshelf, “have you been good about your meds?”
“Of course.” A flicker of irritation passes over his face, but he doesn’t look at me directly as he unfolds the plastic chair and drops it onto a vacant section of floor across from the armchair.
Then he’s off again, heading back to silence the whistling kettle.
“Earl Grey?” he casts over his shoulder, busying himself with the mugs and packets of herbs.
My mouth is dry as, with difficulty, I swallow. “Yes. Thanks.”
Even if Leo is off his medications—which I have no actual proof of—there isn’t much I can do here.
He’s an independent adult, and my absence over the past months hasn’t exactly left us in a place where my interventions would be welcome.
Then, there’s my recent experience with Blair, and what happened when I appeared in her life and tried to change it to my liking.
I bite back my questions as Leo gingerly hands over one of the mugs and sinks down in the folding chair, letting me have the nicer of the room’s two seats.
“How have you been?” he asks, with rather a forced air of normalcy.
Sitting down too, I set the mug on the ground beside it and lean back, gazing at him helplessly. “Okay. I’m sorry to just come by like this. It wasn’t planned.”
Leo regards me appraisingly, his head tilted to the side. “In the area?”
“No, not at all, actually.”
Silence falls, but before I can drum up a neutral topic of conversation, Leo’s next question brings me up short. “Are you seeing someone?”
Totally taken off guard, I stare at him. “Why would you think that?”
Chuckling, my brother drops his gaze significantly to a point below my chin. “You have a rather noticeable bruise, just there.”
Immediately, I pull my phone from my pocket and turn the camera on, angling it so I can see the place he described. Sure enough, with the first two buttons of my knit shirt undone, the material has gaped away just enough for a mouth-shaped bruise to be visible in the hollow above my collarbone.
Christ, princess.