Page 36 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

DEPLORABLE THINGS

KATHERINE

T he ship rocks gently beneath my feet, its creaking hull whispering secrets to the water below.

Cold sea wind brushes across my cheeks, teasing the curls that have slipped free from their pins.

Salt clings to my lips. Ahead, Wexmoore has grown small—a smudge against the night, already swallowed by mist and distance. A dot.

Now, I return home to defend what is mine.

Ashwood and everything inside it.

Dorian is below deck, speaking with Wexmoore. Or perhaps warning him. I didn’t ask for details. I don’t ask. Dorian is vexed by my unruly behaviour, that much is clear,

Alone, I stand at the railing, gripping cold, wet iron.

The moon’s reflection ripples with the waves, silver shards scattered across black water.

Below, the sea churns as we glide through the water.

It is a monotonous, yet calming beat. Enough that I do not hear Lord Gabriel approaching until he is right behind me.

“I am not shocked to find you here, Duchess.”

I turn, and there he stands—Lord Gabriel Hawke, leader of the Bow Street Runners, broad-shouldered and unyielding as ever. His coat is dark, the brass buttons dull in the moonlight, his cravat impeccably tied, even now. He watches me, perhaps with judgment, I cannot be certain.

“Lord Gabriel.”

He arrives beside me.

“I do not agree with His Grace on many things,” he says, stepping closer to the edge, “but you should not have come.”

I sigh, letting my eyes drift back toward the vanishing horizon. “I am not made of glass and bone marrow alone.”

“No,” he says softly. “You are not.”

I don’t know what to say to that. A gull cries overhead. The wind shifts, carrying the faint, briny stink of rope and tar and cannon grease.

He looks toward the moors that grow ever smaller. “It is not the monsters I fear.”

There is an accusation in his voice.

“Then what is it you fear, Lord Gabriel?”

He leans against the great wooden carving fixed to the bow—an old figurehead, shaped like a masked woman, and rope loosely piled nearby. He sways with the ship’s slow rhythm and for a moment, our figures become suspended between stars and blackened waters.

“Let us put aside this charade,” I say at last. “My husband is none of your concern.”

Gabriel regards me. “I have seen how men like the Duke can bend others to their will, Your Grace. Charms. Oaths. Pressure. Power. But no one,” he says, stepping closer, “has the right to dominate your will. Or your spirit.”

The hairs on my neck stand and my temper rises.

“If you ever feel threatened,” Lord Gabriel continues, “or lost—truly lost—know that I will come to you. Regardless of time or circumstance. You need not face this alone.”

His sincerity only angers me.

“I am married.”

“To a demon,” he replies, without flinching.

“He is still my husband.”

That truth hangs between us.

“You are an honourable man, Lord Gabriel. And honourable men do not speak to duchesses in the dead of night, nor would they offer such things that would only guide a lady to ruin.”

He is silent for a while, and then, he speaks.

“You may continue to love him unequivocally. You may build your existence upon the fragments he deigns to leave behind. Who, in body, mind, and spirit, withdraws from your presence, whilst you yet grasp so fervently to the remnants of his regard? To love one who returns not in kind is no act of nobility. It is but an endless supplication to fill a void that consumes the heart whole. You are worthy of more than the echoes of such a love, Your Grace.”

Gabriel peers at me, with deep longing in his eyes.

“You deserve to be perceived fully, to be chosen without hesitation, to have that love standing beside you in body, mind, and soul. Without equivocation, and not merely tolerated or excused away. For love is not idle intention. It is deed and presence. It is appearing when times are most arduous. It is desirable to be near, even when weariness or inconvenience abound. Therefore, the true question is not whether you can abide such a man, Duchess, but whether you are prepared to endure the shadow of love whilst your heart withers in silence. And if you elect to remain, do so with eyes unclouded, knowing the toll it exacts upon your destiny. For you owe yourself truth and love—even if it demands the courage to leave.”

We both fall silent as the ocean slaps the hull.

Above us, the sails groan and catch wind.

It is then that I sense him.

Dorian .

His heavy footsteps are familiar.

By now, I even know his causal gait and the thrums caused by his boots.

He comes from the other side of the deck, emerging like a shadow unfurling.

His eyes, when they meet mine, are dark and brimming with jealousy.

His jaw is clenched too tightly, his shoulders drawn back, his pupils overtaking the colour entirely.

He does not speak at first, but I see him glance toward Gabriel.

A storm gathers in his eyes.

Gabriel turns to face him, but only a madman would provoke a man without knowing who he truly is. “I would advise you, Lord Gabriel Hawke, to keep your distance from my wife. Your so-called ‘protection’ is unnecessary.”

His wife.

The words echo.

I admit, I am smug about it.

He saunters closer until he looks down upon Lord Gabriel with nothing but contempt. The Duke is thicker, more commanding, and already growing by the second. His voice deepens as the demon threatens to emerge. “I handle my own matters. I certainly don’t require your intervention.”

Gabriel doesn’t move. Honour and defiance burnish his posture.

“Your Grace,” he says calmly with both hands at his sides and his chin turned up. “You are a man of immense power. But power does not give one the right to own another. And I would be remiss if I did not offer a way of escape, should she choose it.”

Dorian glares as the young Lord continues speaking. “Terrors,” he says, pausing meaningfully, “can play tricks on the mind.”

Gabriel doesn’t wait for permission to leave. He bows his head, then walks away. His boots tap evenly across the deck until he disappears into shadow.

I admit.

This is not ideal…

Dorian and I remain, alone with the sea and the stars.

He does not look at me and I do not ask what he’s thinking.

The mask creaks as the ship rocks. A gull screams overhead and below, waves crash.

Finally, Dorian extends a hand. “Come with me. There is something I must do — a delicate matter that requires your assistance…”

DORIAN

The hold is quiet except for the creak of the ship and the slap of waves against the hull. Lantern light fills the small room with warm glows. I led Katherine down the narrow stairs, and into the storage room until we stood before a large chest.

Gabriel is wrong.

I can control it.

I just need to practice. Imbibe the beast as I would imbibe poison or tincture: slowly, until I can resist it.

Attached firmly to its surface is Wexmoore’s secret—a broad, polished wooden shaft, smooth and heavy, fixed upright.

Cuffs of soft leather hang securely to the sides, and similar restraints await the ankles.

Wexmoore keeps it here for the worst reasons, but this one remains unused and was recently installed.

“What is this?” Katherine asks, peering around the small room. It is filled with numerous items, none I’m sure she has ever seen before.

“We have no time for questions, Your Grace, the boat docks in less than an hour. Now, remove your pantaloons.”

She wordlessly does as told.

Katherine trembles slightly as I guide her into the cuffs at her wrists, cold leather wrapping around her delicate skin.

Her legs found their way to the ankle restraints, clicking closed with a finality that sent a thrill through both of us.

There is enough give for her to stand and move but not escape.

I lift her onto the stirrups, her toes hovering as she is cuffed, nude beneath her skirts, my mouth waters.

I kneel, hovering above her mount, which hovers just above the jutting contraption, and place both hands over her hips. Bringing myself down, my tongue licks the slit between her lips. She buckles beneath me, shaking as she drips.

I go rigid but do not touch myself. There must be control tonight.

“Sit,” I commanded softly, nodding toward the shaft. “Slowly.”

With trembling grace, she lifts her skirts and lowers herself onto the wooden cock, the cool hardness pressing perfectly against her most sensitive places. The restrained cuffs kept her still, hips flush against the immovable wood, every movement hers but contained.

I sink to my knees before her, my fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the curve of her thigh, before dipping between her legs. My tongue finds the slick path she offered eagerly, tasting her musk until I am drunk.

Her hips move in slow, desperate thrusts, grinding against the fixed shaft beneath her, restrained but willing. Her soft gasps and low moans filled the hold, mixing with the steady rhythm of the ship.

My hands tighten on her hips, holding her close as my tongue flicks and probes.

It flicks deep inside her and she falls into the hard wooden cock a bit more.

A squelch sounds and the tip of my cock beads with desire.

Her body trembles, legs shaking as she slides up and down, leaving white thickened cream in its place.

Gods I want to drive my cock inside her, but cannot, I must not.

I simply watch, growing more rigid as I watch her from my peripheral vision and continue suckling her sweet lips from below. My tongue strokes over her nub and then deep inside her slit.

She trembles against my tongue, quivering heat and mess that drips down my chin.

She drops down, burning herself deep as that wave comes. With both hands I slip over her arse, driving her downward, and prying her apart. God, I want it to be driving into her. I want to fill her, I want to…