The Unraveled Duke

One morning past Christian's collapse feels hollow. Silence hangs where noise once lived.

Vivid whispers now flood every corner, swapping out yesterday’s scandal about Vivian with something sharper - stories of highwaymen, violence, ruin. Each word drags behind me as I drift through hallways, my footsteps slow, like wading through cold currents. Sounds arrive late. Shapes lose their lines. Tightness grips my arms, stretching down into fingers that never quite settle, always humming with tiny shakes.

It keeps coming back - my hair trapped in that locket. His eyes flash next, sharp like frost on steel. By morning, none of it will matter.

It happened just like that. In shadows, fists flew. My body felt every hit.

A heavy truth sits low inside me. It was him. Not just the one whose lips met mine like he was admitting something, then shrugged it off as nothing. This is the person who offered warmth in rooms thick with rosemary fog. Yet that same figure arranged violence - brutal, total - a kind of wiping out so thorough it left no trace behind.

Fear sits heavy. That weight? It's mine.

Fear lives under the skin, yes. Yet somewhere hidden, tucked behind ribs like a stolen letter, warmth flickers. Not kindness. A different heat. He watched what they did. Then erased them completely. No trial. No warning. Just smoke where their life stood. Wrong? Definitely. Twisted? Without question. But safe - suddenly, fiercely - I was.

Few hours pass without a sighting. Locked away, Mrs. Greyson claims, buried in that room where consequences pile up - her words, not mine. What kind exactly? The ones whispered between officials... or the quieter sort, circling behind his eyes when the door stays shut?

Midnight wraps the house in weight you feel in your bones. Lying still becomes impossible. Behind closed eyes, broken chains flash - knuckles hitting stone under trees. I rise, wrap cloth around myself, step barefoot into the long hallway.

Not sure of my destination. Just have to keep walking. Light barely holds in the hallways, flickering from old wall brackets here and there. This route feels known underfoot - heading west now, moving closer to where he stays.

Light spills through the gap where he left the door open.

A thin line of warm light cuts across the floor right where I’m standing. My chest tightens. Maybe stepping away would be smarter. That room with its heavy gold frames waits, along with restless nights.

But I don’t.

Through the gap I slip, quiet as dust, glancing into the room.

Over by that huge desk sits him. Not busy at all. Just present.

He’s asleep.

Resting there, his arms cradle his head atop scattered papers. Close by, a drink - less than full - stands beside a tipped ledger. Light from the lamp spills across his form, muting edges I usually see sharp. Folded like that, he seems less rigid, almost unaware.

Fresh-faced, really. Yet heavy with weariness.

A weight hits me, right in the ribs. He stands there - this one gave the order to strike. They called him the Duke of Ashes once. Now? On the floor, trembling under that single lamp, nothing left to shield him.

Now softness takes over where steel once held tight. Sleep wipes clean the sharp edge of his stare. Shadows stretch from thick lashes down still cheeks. That mouth - so often closed like a locked door - opens just a breath. Fragile, then. Real. Not strong, but whole. Beauty here isn’t loud - it waits in silence, bare.

Time passes while I stay fixed, eyes on the way he breathes. His shoulders move up, then down - steady, heavy. That scent fills the space: him, ink trails, old glass of whiskey. Quiet settles like dust, thick with a tired kind of solitude, one I know too well.

A sudden urge pulls me across the threshold. Toward the fireplace now, where only faint red sparks remain. Over by the chair - his favorite at night - I lift a thick cloth draped there. Not new, but smooth. A deep charcoal color.

A shape moves across the floor - mine. It lands on his shoulder, stills there. He does not move. Closer now, fine cracks show around his eyes, worn like old paper. A hint of dark hair covers his chin. Near his forehead, thin and pale, a mark cuts through the skin. Never saw it until this moment.

A heavy twist pulls inside my ribs. It sits there, sharp and slow.

Softly, like a whisper, the fabric settles on him. Over his back it goes, slow as breath.

A brush so soft you almost miss it. Still, that small moment holds weight.

A burst of movement comes from his arm.

A sudden move, but not rough. Fast it happens, guided by something deeper than thought. The warmth of his hand fills the space around my wrist - steady, there. Under his touch, my heart kicks up, tapping out a rhythm he can feel.

A whisper slips out, heavy with sleep. The world stays dark behind his closed lids. Between waking and drifting, he lingers. His words blur, tangled in drowsy thoughts.

It comes out quiet, a little blurred - still, I catch every part of what was said.

“Stay.”

A whisper cuts through the silence, rough at the edges. Not an order given by nobility. Just one human reaching out, voice low, needing something deeper than titles can name.

His fingers press harder around my wrist, slightly, like he’s scared I might disappear. After that, his breath grows slow once more, his muscles sinking into rest. Still, his palm stays locked in place.

My body locks up. Yet moving back is possible. Nothing holds me there. Sleep still grips him deep.

But I don’t.

I stay frozen, my wrist held firm in his steady grip, eyes dropping to where we touch. Long fingers, tough and lined with old marks, tell a story of someone shaped by more than orders - he's lived what he's survived. Around my thin, lighter arm, his hold sits quiet, not fierce like before, not urgent like the press of lips or the weight between shoulder blades. It’s stripped bare. Just contact. Just staying.

Down I go, bit by slow bit, settling onto the floor next to his seat. Under me, the carpet feels deep, almost plush. My temple finds the ridge of the chair's wooden arm, close to where his elbow bends. Fingers linked, our hands lie quiet, held in the gap between chair leg and my bent knee.

Now he stirs, barely, letting out a quiet breath. Inside that stillness, his thumb drags - once - over the tender part of my wrist. I freeze. Not from cold, but something deeper, softer, running under the skin.

And I stay.

Smoke curls up as the fire sinks to gray dust. His breath moves slow, a constant sound beside me. Under my skin, his thumb presses like a second heartbeat. All that happened fades, pushed back by this moment - still, watchful, oddly calm.

A flickering lamp lights the space where we sit. His fingers wrap around mine without force. This person once broke someone else apart for my sake. Now he looks worn thin by time. Stay, he says low, don’t go yet.

Time slips away, hard to tell how long. Could be hours. Darkness grows heavier outside. The light from the lamp fades slowly.

Not sleeping. Just staying awake beside him. His sharp features, usually so firm, melt into calmness while he rests. A strand of black hair drifts over his brow, slight but noticeable. The depth of his reliance - the kind that comes without thought, without guard - it covers me like heat from within.

When morning's pale glow creeps through the thick curtains, my heart takes a step it can't undo.

Not only does it race from fright but also hums with excitement.

Water bends it. Shape shifts slowly. Cracks appear across the surface.

Falling now, without sound or pause, toward the duke asleep - this one who broke the whole world just to guard a single strand of my hair.