Page 16 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

Gabriel smiles quickly falls. “And if it’s the kind of break that doesn’t mend?”

“Then you stay in the smoke until you forget how it broke in the first place.”

He blinks. Slowly .

I know that look. It is the same one I wore the day she accepted my truth. The moment she didn’t run. The moment she looked me in the eye and saw the monster. It’s the look a man wears when he knows he is ruined.

“You’ll sleep better after this,” she continues.

Lord Gabriel says nothing.

He does not move.

He just watches her, unblinking .

And I stand there, hidden by the grove, warm spice drowning me as the only woman I’ve ever cared for breaks another man with nothing more than kindness.

I hate myself for understanding.

Because it’s the way I feel, too.

∞∞∞

The storm is close. Inside the carriage, the windows fog as the rain begins to pelt. Katherine sits across from me, her silhouette outlined by dim lantern light. A hot stone warms us, but it is already growing cold.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says softly.

I glance at her, then away. “I am thinking.”

“About?”

Expelling a breath, I lean back into the velvet-lined seat. “This road. It winds straight to Ashwood Castle. But halfway through the woods, just past the broken mile-stone, it forks.”

Her eyes follow mine to the window where slides down in heavy streaks. “What’s at the fork?”

The first crack of thunder rolls in the distance. She flinches.

“A place we may need to stop. A manor. Halfway between the town and the castle. My grandfather had it built.”

“Why?” she asks. “Why build a manor in the middle of nowhere?”

With a palm, I rub the cold from my thighs.

“Each Duke contributed something to the family legacy. Something that offered solace. A library. A bathhouse. A school.”

She studies me, curious. “And you?”

Lightning flashes. I don’t look at her. “Me?” I repeat. “I bring destruction.”

“I don’t believe that. I saw what you did for the Ashwood townhouse.”

I turn away. Her gaze is enough to capture a man’s soul. “My mother died the day I was born. And my father…he waited until I left for university to remarry. When I returned, Anna wa s there, and he was dead.”

“I’m sorry, Dorian.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. “He disapproved of everything I studied. My obsession with blood. My experiments. My books. Still, he held his tongue.”

Another flash of light cracks through the sky. The thunder is immediate. Our carriage swerves and the horses neigh wildly.

Then a knock at the door.

The footman opens it just wide enough to be seen. It is William, he is soaked and hunched beneath the rain.

“Storm’s getting bad, Your Grace. Horses are getting spooked.”

I nod once. “Take the detour. We stop at the halfway manor.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The door slams shut, and we are once again alone in the dark. Katherine watches me with an unreadable expression.

“Halfway Manor,” she repeats.

I nod. “My great-grandfather built it when the old castle was still under construction. It was meant to be a shelter during floods, storms. A place for travellers to rest.”

“And now?”

“It’s empty. Fire damage. Left to decay after my grandfather died. I never had it restored.”

She leans forward. “Why not?”

I hold her gaze and answer honestly.

“Because I liked it that way. My grandfather is the one who accidentally set it on fire.”

The carriages groan as they turn off the main road. The storm batters the forest around us now. After another mile of perverse wind, the trees break, and it appears.

Halfway Manor.

A black structure rises from the soaked Earth; four stories, windows tall and empty, grinning into the lightning. The upper floors are charred in places. One tower leans slightly, ribs of the stone exposed where fire had gutted the top.

The carriages roll to a stop.

Outside, the staff scramble beneath the stone alcove — Nora, the footman, the driver, the butler lighting a lantern with shaking fingers. The horses rear, hooves slick on the wet stone.

The manor doors loom. Dust and soot cover the brass handles. When the butler pushes one open, it groans on its hinges as we are ushered inside.

The smell hits first — old ash and rain-drenched stone. There is no warmth, nor welcome, but it is clean and well-kept.

Katherine stays close beside me. Gabriel, his men and the staff appear behind us.

“Nora, go with Mrs. Grange,” I instruct. “There are supplies in the cellar. And William, draw a warm bath before the Duchess catches a chill. Bring it to our room.”

“Our room?” I reiterate .

He peers down at me.

“Yes, the West wing included the main suite. It burned down. I have not repaired it since. You will have to share a room with me, if that is alright with you, Your Grace.”

KATHERINE

The house smells of rosemary and roasted game.

Mrs. Grange is preparing dinner with the help of the butler.

It is early still — the light hasn’t yet given way to storm.

I soak in the bath until the water grows lukewarm, then dress myself before Nora can arrive to help.

I have no appetite for pleasantries today.

From the hallway, I no longer hear the quiet voices of Dorian and Gabriel speaking. The last I heard, they were discussing Mr. Cutter, the murder, Lord Sainsbury, and the captain. They’ve been speaking like this all afternoon.

I take my cloak and go for a walk.

The air outside is damp but not yet cold.

Grass clings to my boots, and the wind whispers through the trees.

I trail the path around the estate, veering from gravel into brush.

My body aches from the tension of words unsaid.

I cannot keep the truth hidden from Nora much longer.

At some point, I will have to tell her about the creature Dorian truly is.

The house stands behind me, its shape half-devoured by trees. As I round the bend near the orchard, something glints through the clearing. An old building — domed, glass-limbed, with brass bones, set apart from the estate. A conservatory or perhaps, a library?

From a distance, I see him.

Dorian.

He stands at a stone bench with rusted instruments — tongs, lenses, delicate brushes, and scalpels, arranged with precision. A notebook lies open beside them, stained with ink.

“What is this place?” I ask. “Why does nobody live here?”

He doesn’t look up at first. Only when I move closer does he speak.

“My grandfather built this wing when he retired from the military. It was meant to be a sanctuary.” He pauses. “He was like me.”

“Like you how?”

Dorian glances up, holding a roll of white thread in his hands. He places it down as I near. “This is where he conducted his… experimentations.”

I glance around.

The building is ancient…beautiful.

“He taught me quite a lot before he died…”

“How far is the rest of our travel?”

“Twenty-six leagues, from the edge of town to the castle gates. The first half is passable. The second… less so.“

It is then that I see it poking out from beneath the boards. A pink flower.

I bend down to observe its petals.

“The Daphne of Winter? It grows here?”

His gaze descends until it meets mine.

“Daphne Odora.”

“They grow along the stone walls inside the imperial gardens of Qinghua Wangfu.”

“A taste of home. T’was shipped from London a hundred years ago. Now it blooms in Ashwood, particularly in the mountainside.”

He bends down on one knee and plucks one. I can only stare as he lifts it. The flower sits delicately between his thumb and forefinger, and then those eyes darken to coal.

Sweet perfume bleeds between us and my breath stops as he leans closer. He slips it behind my ear and for the longest time, watches me. Then his hands are on my waist, fingers digging past layers of fabric. And that mouth, all hot and brutal, crashes into mine.

Dorian…

My hands reach for his shoulders but he’s already pulling me closer, tongue, teeth, breath — and his fingers…

Oh, God, his fingers…

They splay underneath my skirt and between my thighs.

Then he stops and warm breath trembles at my neck. “You don’t mean to do it,” he whispers.

My heart pounds as I stare back with aching lips, bruised from him. “Do what?”

“Ruin men.”

“What—”

“I was there. I saw it.”

His voice is raw now.

Hurt .

“You and Gabriel.”

I'm still.

“I did not—”

But before I can answer — the clock chimes.

Once. Twice and six more times.

Dorian’s worry replaces that hunger. I fall backward as he rises and collects his notebook. He shoves it into his coat without looking back at me. “We should go.”

He offers his hand.

I don’t take it. I care not if he is offended.

In silence, I follow, rain spraying sideways against my cheek, and watching his broad shoulders sway between each flash of lightning. By the time we cross the open field to the rear entrance, the storm has arrived in giant sheets of white lightning, and bangs so heavy they shake the manor walls.

Nora doesn’t ask any questions, only delivers a towel and closes the front door behind us.

We arrive at dinner, where a fire crackles in the nearby hearth. It is warm and I dry quickly after taking my seat. Dorian wordlessly sits to my left, at the head of the table. Pheasant, roasted with potato drenched in a heavy cream is served. My stomach rumbles .

I am famished.

The storm continues, but the wind howls until plates rattle. Then — the front door slams open with a “BANG!”