Chapter 14
Anastasia had not slept properly for three nights.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the cool press of Benedict’s desk beneath her cheek, the sharp tug of ribbon at her wrists, the merciless command in his voice. She burned with shame at the memory, and worse, she burned with something far more damning.
Her body had betrayed her. She had felt it, undeniable and humiliating, when his hand touched her where no man ever had. She had lied to him, yes, lied with every shred of breath she possessed, but her body had shouted the truth. And he had known it. He had gloated about it.
She paced her room until the rug threatened to wear thin.
He treats me like a problem to be solved, a scandal to be hidden away—yet I… She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. She could still hear his voice in her ear. ‘You will not escape me.’
She wanted to hate him. In fact, she told herself she did.
Every smirk, every lecture, every arrogant command of his had made her want to throw a candlestick at his head.
And yet, perversely, her heart lurched every time she caught the sound of his footsteps in the corridor.
She had done her best to avoid him, but she was done hiding away in her room.
“I will not be managed like this,” she whispered to her reflection, her jaw tight. “He will not get the better of me.”
But her resolve cracked when the memory intruded once more—his hand steady and merciless at her hip, his voice rough against her ear, the way he had bent her to his will until her body trembled with shameful eagerness.
Her throat tightened. She could not decide what unsettled her more: that he had taken such power over her, or that she had let him.
Or worse still… that I wanted more?
Anastasia squeezed her eyes shut, furious with herself. There was no dignity in wanting a man who treated her like a problem to be disciplined. No sense in craving the very hands that had bound her wrists. Yet the craving gnawed at her, low and insistent, every time she let her guard down.
She turned from the window, her skirts rustling, and pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.
I need to leave Frostmore, she thought, the truth hitting hard. Because the next time he touches me, I will not have the strength to pretend I do not want it.
“Damnation!” Benedict jolted, sloshing port across the open ledgers on his desk.
He could tell he was losing his mind; there was no other explanation for the feverish state he was in.
It had been days since he had pushed Anastasia against his desk, tied her wrists, and demanded her obedience like some rake fresh from London.
Madness, absolute madness. Anyone could have walked in, seen them, destroyed them both, but he had not cared.
He had licked her juices from his fingers like a starved man, savoring her as though she were the only sustenance in the world.
The memory made him so hard that he had spent the night stroking himself to the thought of her, biting back her name like a blasphemy.
He loathed himself for it. Loathed her more for being the reason.
Since then, his study had become unbearable. The desk mocked him. He had contemplated dragging it into the gardens and setting it on fire, as though the flames could erase the memory of Anastasia bent over it, gasping his name into the wood. But fire would not burn out his madness.
He had taken to rereading his list—the one he had written in neat, uncompromising ink, rules to govern his life, his composure, his reputation.
It had always been his compass, his order against chaos.
And now, every line mocked him. Because he had broken the one law he prized most: control.
Letting a woman shake the foundations of his composure.
Benedict’s childhood came crashing back to him.
He had spent his time being whirled around by his father’s recklessness and his uncle’s volatile favor.
His father could not be trusted to keep his ledgers in order; his uncle, meanwhile, would draw Benedict close when he pleased him and dismiss him the moment he did not—as though affection were a privilege to be granted and revoked at will.
So, Benedict spent most of his life trying to command his destiny.
He would never be as powerless as he once was. Never again.
“Benedict? Are you all right?” Sebastian’s voice cut through his thoughts, and a hand waved briefly in front of Benedict’s face, as if to check whether he was still in the room.
Fortunately, he had company to interrupt him before his mind ran too far ahead. Cassian and Sebastian had driven all the way to Frostmore that afternoon to surprise him, and the three of them had already been drinking in his study for an hour.
“What? Yes, I am fine.”
“You are downing that port faster than I am, Benedict, and that is saying a lot,” Cassian muttered.
“I need to clear my head,” Benedict responded.
“Or clear everything in it instead,” Sebastian added dryly, earning himself a round of guffaws from Cassian. But Benedict was not in the mood for their antics.
“I cannot make sense of it,” he muttered, glaring at his glass as though it might yield answers.
“Three suitors in as many weeks, and all have fled. One stormed away after the meeting, the next had hot tea dumped upon his breeches, and the viscount—” His jaw ticked.
“Well, he fell into the pond in the gardens.”
Cassian burst out laughing, his chair creaking as he leaned back. “Into the pond? By God, Benedict, are you collecting stories for a farce? You ought to charge admission. The Misadventures of Miss Dawson, starring your unfortunate guests.”
Sebastian laughed too, shaking his head. “And the viscount no less. I am sure he is still fuming at this very moment.”
Benedict sighed. “I would be if I were him.”
Cassian leaned forward, swirling his glass lazily. “Doesn’t it bother you that your ward—”
“She is not my ward!” Benedict cut in sharply.
Cassian smirked, unbothered. “That the lady in your care seems incapable of holding a gentleman’s attention for longer than a supper course? One might suspect she does not wish to marry at all.”
“She must marry,” Benedict snapped, slamming his glass onto the table.
The port sloshed perilously close to the rim.
“For her own sake and for mine. I cannot have her under my roof any longer. It is my responsibility to see her settled elsewhere. I cannot have her…” He stopped; the rest of his words remained unspoken.
I cannot have her here, within arm’s reach, driving me to madness at every turn.
Sebastian smirked, all too aware of the silence. “He speaks with such fervor, does he not, Cassian? One might think he is the one being courted.”
“Or avoided,” Cassian drawled, narrowing his eyes at Benedict as if he might strip him bare with a glance. “Though I confess, I cannot tell which. Say, old chap, where is this Miss Dawson? Why haven’t we made her acquaintance yet?”
“Perhaps he is hiding her away,” Sebastian added with a laugh.
“I am not privy to her schedule. Besides, it is best that we avoid each other. She can be… impossible to be around.”
“Or you want to keep her only to yourself.” Cassian took a sip of his drink.
Benedict shot them both a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “You are fools, both of you. I want her married and out of this house as soon as possible. The matter is closed.”
“Well, then I hope we get a chance to meet her next time we come for a visit.” Cassian winked at Benedict.
They talked a little longer, finished the last of the port, and then Cassian and Sebastian finally bade their friend farewell.
The moment the door shut behind them, silence swelled like a tide. Their presence had distracted him for a few hours, but now he was left alone again—alone with the pounding in his skull, the heat in his veins, and the unshakable memory of her.
Which was how he ended up in his uncle’s fencing chamber.
The room smelled of oiled leather and cold steel, unchanged from his boyhood.
Benedict rolled up his sleeves, drew a sword from the rack, and began to move.
Steel hissed through the air, every strike precise, economical, drilled into him since the age of seven.
His uncle’s voice seemed to linger in the chamber still. ‘A Straton does not falter. Again. Again. Again, until you can no longer lift the blade.’
How many afternoons had he spent in here, a boy too small for the weight of the sword, his palms blistering until they bled, only to be shunned for months as soon as one of his uncle’s wives was with child?
Duty had been forged into his bones here, alongside bruises and exhaustion.
His uncle had believed weakness was a disease to be stamped out by discipline, and Benedict had believed him.
Now, every thrust and parry was meant to drive Anastasia from his head. The memory of her mouth. Her defiance. The chaos she brought wherever she stepped. He slashed harder, faster, until sweat slicked his brow and his muscles burned.
And then the door flew open, and she walked in.
She swept into the chamber as though she owned the air itself—skirts swishing, chin high—and only when she spotted him did she freeze mid-step. The color rose up her throat and into her cheeks like a tide.
“Oh,” she breathed, color rising to her cheeks. “I… I did not realize anyone would be here.”
Benedict lowered the sword slowly, his pulse still thundering, his breath rough from exertion—and something else entirely. His shirt clung damp to his back; his hair was disheveled. He must have looked nothing like the cool master of the house he pretended to be.
“Miss Dawson,” he said evenly, though his voice came out lower than he had intended. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I beg your pardon,” she blurted and blushed, taking a quick step back. “I was looking for… well, it does not matter. I will leave you to it.”