36. The Violence of Loyalty
THE VIOLENCE OF LOYALTY
ERIC
T he castle has gone from a haunted asylum to a five-star resort.
Extended family and friends have migrated for a week of celebrations, completely unaware of the darker happenings.
It makes me think of when Francesca said they perfume their rot to hide that stench, and that’s exactly what’s happening here.
What with all these chatter-filled halls and cousins clumping together in different drawing rooms, I can hardly believe it.
Dressed in autumn knits, smelling of old ambition, they strut around like they’re on the set for Sheffolk’s Best magazine shoot.
Some bow when they see me; some even try to engage in conversation, but I’m deaf to it all because I’m on a mission.
Francesca’s getting ready for the day, oblivious to the fact that my morning’s been ruined by the message that flashed on her screen.
Ew #5
I bet you haven’t been properly ridden since Gabe.
I’ll be out by the stables in an hour or so. Lemme show you how to mount again, promise you’ll enjoy it.
She handed me the phone with that brittle laugh, talking about how this is what she has to deal with—from men who call themselves noble .
Irritated by the vulgarity of it, she left him on read, just like all the others.
But what fucks me up the most is that he’s number five, as though this is some revolving door of degenerates waiting to have her after Gabriel.
Just another eye-roll, and she was over it because it’s normal.
It’s not normal, though.
For me, that filthy message sealed my suspicions.
West wing, just a few doors down from my own room. My jaw clenches when I see it, and I don’t bother with any preamble. Just shove through hard enough that the hinges screech.
Charlie Henderson jumps like a boy caught wanking by his mother, elbow banging into the window where he stands.
He chokes mid-drag and drops the vape in his hand, coughing so hard I hear something rattling.
That sickly citrus coils through the air, encountering the memory that stayed wrapped around my lungs all night.
He’s dressed head to toe in riding gear—boots polished, russet gloves snug, tan breeches and a pretentious black show jacket.
The outfit certainly doesn’t match his act; the whole thing reads like a bad parody of aristocracy, especially when he hacks up more of that cheap scent.
Surprise hits once he recognises me, then realisation.
I step in, shutting the door behind me. “Morning, Charles.”
He waves the smoke away, his mouth trying to shape an excuse, but I’ve already closed the distance. His back slams into the stone wall, and the sound makes little noise, as though Redford herself muffles it.
“Prince Eric,” he croaks. “What brings you?—”
“You watched us by the tree.” His hand creeps towards my chest, like he’s going to try and calm me, but I grab it and pin it to the wall. The glove creaks, and he bites down on a whimper. “Why were you there?”
He swallows. “Taking a walk. Last I checked, that wasn’t illegal.”
“Yeah? Then why does your breath smell like the path to her cottage last night?”
“You’ve got it wrong?—”
“ Got it wrong ,” I parrot, voice sharpening. “Oh, you mean ‘ wrong ’ in the way you happened to take a walk close to her home? Or maybe ‘ wrong ’ like how you stood there listening to her moan, dragging on that vape while you fed yourself on her. That’s not it?”
Charlie doesn’t answer, and it’s the first smart thing he’s done since I entered the room. One wrong move from him and I’m going to repeat Milan’s actions. There’s a haziness to the blue in his eyes; through it I can almost see the vision of what he’s witnessed.
He saw me push her back against the tree, saw her laughing into my mouth and teasing me. He heard her moan when I found that spot beneath her ear and listened to her whimper. His perversity stole that moment and turned it into contraband for him to abuse.
“What the fuck is going on?” he blurts suddenly, eyes darting over my shoulder.
For a second I think he’s addressing me, still playing his game and acting oblivious. But then I hear it. A slow drag, something heavy on stone.
I turn to see the built-in cupboards thrown wide open, showcasing a fashion line of outfits that shouldn’t belong to a guest. At least, not one who’s only staying for a week.
Fucker packed for a month-long pageant. Too many suit jackets and boots.
And then I narrow in on the movement: a suitcase is being pulled across the floor by a mouldy-smelling source. A still-packed suitcase.
Charlie’s face empties of all bravado, gasping out, “ Jesus fuck. ”
My fist releases his shirt because the ghostly girl has grabbed my full attention. “Tommy, what are you doing?”
Charlie scuttles back at my question like I’ve grown a second head, throwing himself in the farthest corner. “Stop— enough . Get out!”
Tommy unzips the suitcase with a loud shriek, teeth parting before she kicks it open.
An explosion of clothing follows, innards ripped out whilst she searches for her target.
Charlie yelps at seeing his belongings go flying, and the pile grows ridiculous.
The last thing inside is a wrapped parcel, twine cinched hastily around it.
Tommy tears into it, shredding paper, and then something drops to the floor, the glass dome shattering.
What’s left rolls forward over uneven bumps of stone before coming to a stop at my foot.
A candle. About a quarter has been used, with the rim melted and the wick charred, whilst its twin currently sits on my dresser.
The past two days fall into place like dominoes, and the pattern of it almost kills me.
It’s him. The bastard in dorm 4A.
There’s a brief breath of wind, an invisible hand suddenly at my back, clutching my shirt as I turn.
Calm down . But there’s no way in hell that’s happening, and Tommy lets go.
Charlie hasn’t moved from the corner, a trapped rat hoping it’ll eat him before something infinitely worse and feline comes along.
He can’t meet my gaze, darting between the candle and the door, but I don’t give a fuck about his cowardice.
I’m eyeing the expensive riding gloves he wears.
Last night, leather had been silk, and the night before’s claimed wool.
I step toward him, nod once at his hands. “Take the gloves off. Now.”
“Get out of my room. Before I call security.”
As if they’d even make it here before I was finished with him. “Do it.”
Recognising the futility of his threat, he recoils and then tries to leave.
Four strides, and I’m slamming him back into the corner.
His head snaps back on a moan, one hand trapped behind him.
The other raises to grab my throat, but I catch it and twist his fingers until he’s whining.
I have him by the jaw, and he makes my job so easy because he tries to snatch his hand back—whilst I’m gripping the edge of a glove.
It slides off effortlessly. I use his realisation as a chance to snatch his other hand; he jerks, but I go from jaw to throat, pinning him with a forearm and tearing leather free.
Both hit the floor, and the room goes silent.
In this light, his pale hands are a canvas.
Four angry cuts run diagonally, lifting skin. They’re frantic. Desperate.
Hers .
Francesca gorged him through fabric. I picture her small, clever hands, how hard they had to have fought to mark him like this.
Through the gloves. Through her poisoned daze.
The room tilts, and I steady it by taking his throat in hand.
This thing , this pathetic rat, attacked her.
His eyes bulge, lips moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying over the static in my ears.
“You choked her.” My voice doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me. “You put your hands right here.” I dig my fingers into the hollow of his throat.
He flails, clawing uselessly at my sleeves. “I don’t know what you’re?—”
I ram his skull into the wall, and the sound of his teeth clacking stokes a vicious fire inside me.
He goes glassy, still claiming oblivion, but it’s drowned by a second impact.
Her name falls from his lips in a whimper, and I see red.
He wheezes another lie, and I answer with my fist. Thick, warm blood drips over my knuckles.
My signet ring bites into skin, branding him; the first useful thing it’s done for me.
He sways sideways to the floor as his knees buckle under him.
I mount his chest, slapping away his defensive hands as he coughs synthetic citrus into my face.
That smell takes me back to last night, and I hit him for it.
Fist after fist, I pour it into his face.
Something inside his nose relocates. I hate how much that click satisfies me.
Charlie sobs a word that might be please .
His plea becomes a fucking trigger, one that I want him to suffer for.
The part of me that loves silence takes a seat, and the part that looks like my father stands up.
To look into the mirror would show me him, but I don’t fight off the resemblance because Charlie put his hands on Francesca’s throat .
All I can see is her, half-naked on her room floor, struggling to fight him off.
I want him choking on his own blood, begging me the way she never could because he stole her voice.
The ring digs channels into his skin until it tears and blood—both his and mine—drips down onto his jacket.
I’m cataloguing everything as I land each blow: one eye is already shut, his cheeks swell grotesquely.
More blood bubbles, teeth flashing pink.
Enjoyment unspools within my chest until it burns.
“ Please —I, khhhh , I didn’t—” He’s still trying to speak through his split lip. “I jus’, I was— fuck —following instruc… tions .”