Chapter 16
ARDEN
Arden opened all the windows in his bedchamber and stood in the cross draft until his teeth chattered, although inside he was burning.
When that didn’t help, he rang for iced water and waved Magda away when she frowned at him and tried to bundle him into a robe, getting quite uppity about it and making comments about his lips—they’re blue, Your Grace!
—and his skin—blue! Goosebumps! You’re shivering!
—and eventually his wits—mad as a March hare, Your Grace!
He stood in the cold, he drank as much cold liquid as he could, and he ignored how miserable he felt about it, because it was the right thing to do.
Waves of heat twisted out from his groin, twined up through his body and spread into his chest, his limbs, his mind.
Beckett would come if he asked.
Jack wouldn’t mind if he did.
But Arden wanted to show them both that he wouldn’t be a bother, that he could control himself and not make everything about him all the time.
He was happy. He was finally happy. Jack wanted him—he’d said!—Beckett wasn’t angry about it—he’d kissed Arden, and he’d shown Arden how to kiss Jack!—and Arden was so excited about living somewhere he belonged, and about being loved, that he just…
He wanted to make a good impression.
While Jack had known him forever, he didn’t really know Arden the adult, and Beckett didn’t know him at all.
In other words, Arden had been blessed with the glorious opportunity to become a whole new Arden.
An Arden who wasn’t best kept out of sight in a different wing.
An Arden who wasn’t told to go away. Who wasn’t a useless burden.
An Arden who was strong.
Or, he thought glumly a few hours later, he could just continue on being the same old Arden.
Oh, but he’d tried. He really had.
It hurt.
He stood, swaying, a hand knotted around the bell pull and crushing the heavily embroidered fabric with the kind of grip he didn’t know he had in him. He was still debating whether or not to ring for someone when the door opened and he realised blearily that he must have rung it anyway.
Footsteps came quickly across the polished wooden floor and tentative hands helped him up off his knees—he was on his knees?—and guided him to his bed.
He looked up into wary blue eyes and squinted. It wasn’t Jack or Beckett. He knew that without looking, of course. His stupid omega body would be throwing itself at either of them if it was. This was a beta. A footman. “H-hapton?”
“Your Grace.” Hapton sat Arden on the edge of the mattress. “Shall I send for Beckett, Your Grace?” He kept a hand on Arden’s shoulder to stop him from toppling over.
“Um. Perhaps. I hate to ask, but…”
“Right away, Your Grace,” Hapton said, and darted off. Before he left the room, he rushed back, muttered something like, “Fall over anyway,” and pushed Arden gently down to lie on the mattress.
Arden whined with protest and fear as Hapton caught both his ankles in one big hand and tossed his legs up on the bed to join the rest of him, but that was all the man did before running off again.
Arden lay there and concentrated on calming his racing heart, his rapid breathing.
Any minute. Beckett would be here any minute.
He’d probably be annoyed with Arden for pulling him away from his duties again, but he’d be here. Arden would make sure that Beckett knew he’d at least tried.
He wrestled back some measure of control over his wretched body, and even had the coordination to push up expectantly to his elbows when the door opened.
It wasn’t Beckett.
It was Hapton again.
“What?” Arden said weakly. “Where? Beckett?”
His cheeks burned at the sound of his voice. Feeble. Beseeching.
Hapton clearly found it as awful to hear as Arden did. His shoulders hunched and he didn’t step into the room. It took him a few attempts before he managed to grind out, “Shit. Ah, shit.”
Arden blinked, startled.
Hapton shoved a hand through his thick blond hair. “Beckett’s not coming, Your Grace.”
Arden closed his eyes as a wash of pain scoured through his pelvis. He rode it out and shakily heaved himself from his elbows up to sitting. “Are you…? Are you sure?”
Hadn’t Jack said that Beckett would…?
“Yes, Your Grace. Very sure.” Hapton’s usually friendly face was set and coldly disapproving.
Arden curled in on himself at the show of anger. “Very well,” he said, and only made a tiny gasp when the pain clamped around the base of his spine and chewed. He sent Hapton what he hoped was a polite, dismissive smile. “In that case, perhaps I shall take a nap. That’ll be all. Thank you, Hapton.”
Hapton dithered at the doorway.
“You are dismissed,” Arden said with a snap of authority born less from confidence and more from panic.
Hapton inclined his head and closed the door with a click behind him.
It wasn’t as bad as last time, Arden told himself.
Truly, it wasn’t.
It might feel that way, but he was imagining it.
You see, last time, he’d clawed his clothes off—not on purpose!—and ended up on the bed making some sort of fretful nest.
He wasn’t even on the bed this time.
He gritted his teeth and pressed his forehead to the cold wooden door. Oh. He hummed. It helped a bit, he thought? To make a little noise. He’d tried holding it back entirely but the effort had made him scream, which had made Hapton burst through the door, almost as frantic as Arden about it.
Arden ordered him away.
He…
To his shame, he’d inquired about Beckett first, but…
He shouldn’t have asked. He knew it when Hapton’s expression turned hard and disapproving again. “Your Grace, Beckett said you must command him if you want him tonight, and you must do it yourself and in person—”
“No,” Arden gasped. Command him? That poor boy. No. “No, no. That’s fine. I am perfectly…I understand. Perfectly.”
He didn’t.
He didn’t.
Beckett was kind. Beckett had kissed him, and told him how to kiss Jack. He’d helped him.
He’d been nice.
Jack said he wouldn’t want Arden to muddle through alone. Jack must have been wrong. And it was fine. Beckett was allowed to change his mind.
“It’s because of His Grace,” Hapton blurted.
“Hmm?” Arden had managed to let out a mostly even-sounding query.
“Pissed off about His Grace being sick, he is. Else he wouldn’t be being such a prick about this. Begging Your Grace’s pardon.”
“I do understand. That you, H-hapton. That w-will be all.”
Hapton picked Arden up when he went down to a knee—just lightheaded, Arden said. Perhaps I’ll have something to eat later—and eventually, thankfully, left.
Arden had bitten his lip bloody trying not to make a noise.
At least he’d been facing away from Hapton, so he hadn’t embarrassed himself further.
That was a while ago. And…
And Arden was sure that he’d be fine any moment.
Yes, he’d cried out for Jack. He wasn’t proud of it. He had the sense to cover his face with a pillow first, though. He was confident no one had heard him.
He’d made Jack sick. It was a lot worse than Jack had let on, obviously. He didn’t blame Beckett one little bit for being angry with Arden. Hapton was angry, too. Gods. The whole of Avendene was probably furious with him. Arden didn’t blame them. He was angry with himself, too.
He discovered that it helped to keep moving.
It helped to keep a hand on the wall as he paced, otherwise the waves of lightheadedness would take him down to his knees again.
Each time, it was harder to get up. He couldn’t feel his knees right now—couldn’t feel anything, really, other than that twisting, roiling, biting need—but he had a feeling they’d be black and blue in the morning.
Which wasn’t so far away.
It wasn’t so far.
Arden reached the windows, turned, and began his slow, steady pace to the opposite wall.
He had to force himself to keep his eyes from wandering to the door.
He’d actually opened it twice, despite not intending to.
His stupid, wretched body. Trying to make him seek out Beckett.
Trying to force him to make demands on the poor boy.
And Beckett would, Arden had no doubt, do his duty.
He’d be angry about what Arden had done to Jack, and he’d fuck Arden silly anyway because he was lovely, and he’d hate every moment of it.
That small part of Arden that had begun to unfurl that morning when Beckett escorted him to Jack’s study and playfully, bossily kissed him, closed up tight.
He pushed it down without mercy.
The pain wasn’t easing up but he was, he was sure, getting used to it.
It couldn’t last much longer, could it?
“Your Grace? Shit-fuck-bollocks. Fuck. Your Grace.”
“Mm?” Arden blinked water from his eyes but it didn’t do much to bring his wavering vision into focus.
Hapton crouched before him, one hand hesitantly out. And Arden—oh, the humiliation. Arden was on his hands and knees in the corridor between his chamber and Jack’s.
“Enough,” Hapton said. “Fucking…enough.” He bent down, scooped Arden up, and strode down the corridor.
“Where...where…”
“Taking you to His Grace’s chamber, Your Grace. You’ve tried to get in there five times already. Let’s just…tuck you in. Or something.”
Arden’s skin crawled at the sensation of being in Hapton’s arms. This wasn’t his alpha. It wasn’t. He began to fight.
Hapton didn’t have any trouble containing him. He booted the door in front of him open, rushed across the large space, and deposited Arden on Jack’s bed.
Arden wheezed in relief at the familiar scents that surrounded him. Jack. Beckett.
“You hold on, Your Grace. You hear? Hold on. I’ll get you help.”