Page 37 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

I held her steady, savouring every last wave of her pleasure, my mouth worshipping her until her shudders slow.

I cannot bear it. I stand. And unzip my pants. I am so thick, perhaps the tincture might not be enough. I wrench myself free and wrap a hand around the base. I stroke and she watches, still riding that wooden cock.

And then her lips find me, they wrap around. And she suckles me, still riding that cock, I drive into her, knowing this is dangerous, knowing I must stop. I cannot transform.

I grit my teeth. The tincture burns in my gut, but the change is rising.

I must not finish.

I must not—

I bury myself within that feeling, so near to exploding, I cannot think.

At first, she licks me slowly, my brain hazing with memories I yearn to feel again.

She is musky on my tongue, salt and heat and so thick my jaw locks as I slip in the tip.

She cannot fit me. So she comes when I can.

She takes my cock into her mouth, tongue stroking at what it can.

My grip tightens over the base and I pull myself away.

“I cannot,” I whisper hoarsely.

She quivers and lifts herself from the wooden chair, dripping wet with the need for release. I carry it deep within me, throbbing as I stand.

“Come closer,” she whispers.

But I force down onto the chair, fingers twisting her nipple. Inch by inch, she falls, deeper, her mouth wide, her knees shaking, until it is buried deep within. Without another moment, her body shakes.

I release the hold over my shaft, still rigid and dripping with white pre-release, but unchanged. Katherine watches me and the demon abates.

I can do this.

GAbrIEL

Ashwood Harbour lies cloaked beneath a low-hanging fog, the damp chill crawling into my bones as I step off the creaking ship.

The sea behind us thrashes as ten of my finest Bow Street Runners follow close, shadows draped in damp cloaks, eyes sharp and bodies ready.

The rest—over fifty strong—have been embedded in the Duke’s townhouse in Ashwood proper for weeks, running patrols, chasing leads, surviving on little rest.

Two black carriages stand waiting on the pier, horses restless and stamping in the mud, iron lanterns showing the road through a thick layer of fog. Salt stings my cheeks, and cold air bites through the layers of my coat.

“Load up,” I bark. “No mistakes.”

We rattle uphill through the narrow, twisting lanes of Ashwood town, over cobblestones glistening with rain, and past streetlamps glowing inside the midnight hour. Chimney smoke puffs into the grey sky from houses that stand shuttered. Ahead, the Duke’s townhouse appears.

The carriage rocks to a stop just beyond the gates, lanterns swinging dim against the mist. One of the guards recognises me and signals the others.

Two young constables shoulder their muskets and stand straighter as I descend, with boots crunching into gravel.

My men follow—ten of them, silent, soaked, and waiting.

A junior runner jogs to meet us, face pale beneath his cap. “My lord—uh, sir,” he corrects. “We weren’t expecting you until dawn.”

“You weren’t meant to,” I say. “Any updates?”

He hesitates. “No sign of Lord Sainsbury. Some unrest near the Holloway Road checkpoint, but the locals settled down once the wagons passed. Other than that, quiet.”

I nod once. “We’ll need the drawing room. Send for any men stationed outside and tell Everly to post two fresh pairs at the western gate — and wake the crier. He’s got an announcement to make.”

“Yes, sir.”

He runs off, too quickly for a man with nothing to fear.

I turn back to the others.

“Move quickly. Don’t speak unless I do.”

The townhouse ahead of us looms, all damp stone and shuttered windows.

The Duke’s private residence in town, and tonight it smells like tension and fire and something worse underneath.

My breath fogs as I step up the stone stairs with two Dukes and a Duchess beside me.

No doubt they will be surprised to find Wexmoore here.

Katherine says nothing as she follows, her gloved fingers brushing damp curls from her cheek. Dorian lingers near the back.

Behind me, one of the men clears his throat. “Permission to speak, sir?”

“Granted.”

“Didn’t we escort the prince out just days ago? Why the redeployment? What’s this all for?”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

The hallway inside is too warm, the fire making it close and airless. Everything smells faintly of salt, damp paper, and ash. Coats are hung. Wet boots line the baseboards. The few staff still here avert their eyes as we pass. The townhouse has been lived-in.

Katherine watches them, I can tell, displeased by the mess they’ve created during her absence. Another runner leans against the wall ahead, but upon seeing her, straightens fast.

“Your Grace!” He bows. “I will move the dirty socks immediately.”

She simply frowns at him.

“Is there a maid present? Have her bring tea to the drawing room. The men convene there.”

The man bows again. “Yes, Your Grace, at once, your Grace.”

“Sir,” another runner says. He faces Lord Gabriel, “We’ve all interior squads on rotation, but most of the men bedded down hours ago.”

“Wake them.”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods and disappears down the corridor.

Dorian stops beside an old portrait on the wall—one of his ancestors, scowling and bloodless, dressed in velvet and powdered pride. There’s a jagged cut across the face, the canvas split down the mouth. Someone’s rage, left unspoken.

“You think they’re ready?” Katherine asks under her breath.

“No,” he replies. “But that never mattered.”

Not but ten minutes later, inside the drawing room, sixty-six men fill the room.

Their faces are pale and still drowned in sleep. Shadows hang under their eyes from weeks of cold watches and restless nights. Around us, maps and documents litter tables.

The time is now. I clear my throat and hold their gaze. “What you’ve been investigating — what has been festering beneath Ashwood—has grown into a crisis.”

I unseal the Duke’s letter and read every word aloud. For they will remember it and deliver the missive to execute themselves.

“ By Order of Lord Gabriel Hawke, Chief Constable of His Majesty’s Runners, and per the Seal of the Crown and the Ducal House of Ashwood:

Due to severe instability in the subterranean salt deposits beneath Ashwood Castle, which pose an imminent risk of environmental contamination and explosive threat, all western residents of Ashwood and surrounding districts are to be temporarily relocated with immediate effect.

This measure is precautionary, but non-negotiable. Residents with the means and health to do so shall proceed by foot or carriage eastward to Holloway, where temporary housing and provisions await.

Those who are vulnerable, infirm, or otherwise unable to travel inland will be ferried by boat to Wexmoore under armed escort.

This directive shall be enforced by the authority of the Crown, under the Civil Emergency Statutes of 1783, and those who refuse to comply shall be detained and removed for their safety.

There is no cause for panic. This is a temporary measure enacted for public welfare and stability.

Further updates shall be provided at two-hour intervals by the Office of the Chief Constable. ”

The room falls silent.

“Is this true, my Lord?” Another runner asks.

With a shake, I dispel his calm. “No. It is a lie.”

Hushed whispers break out as I move to the pinned map on the wall, tracing routes with a gloved finger. “Two men at each gate. Visible, armed, and ready. The Church of Saint Morwenna is to be closed with posted notices claiming ‘spiritual quarantine’—a necessary deception to keep order.”

The men break out into chatter, enough to defend. I raise a hand and they quieten.

“Seize every wagon and carriage you can find,” I continue. “Prioritise the vulnerable — children, the infirm, the elderly. Muster points are set in Ashford Green, Lower Flint Street, and near Holloway’s eastern approach.”

I look back at the men, catching the strain in their eyes. “Local constables and militia will be deputised under Crown law to assist. Use every resource. And town criers will make hourly announcements:”

“Sir!” another man yells, “what is going on?”

But Gabriel does not stop, for there is no time to waste. “By order of Lord Hawke, a brief relocation will be enforced. For residents in the west of Ashwood, please gather at designated muster points. You will be returned home once safety is confirmed. We are at war.”

The men begin moving—drawing weapons, scribbling notes, dispatching runners. But the worst is still to come.

Once they see him, it can never be unseen.

But, it is time.

I open the door and gesture for Dorian and Katherine to come inside.

She carries a blade in her hand, regal and composed as ever.

Behind her, Dorian follows, his pale eyes coated with unspoken dread.

He sheds his coat with deliberate slowness; his bare arms exposed to the room, a man standing on the edge of something monstrous.

The men stiffen.

“What is this? Why is the Duke, here?”

I speak plainly. “This is why we fight. This is what you will be defending against.”

Dorian’s transformation will be the crucible by which loyalty is tested. If the men cannot stand this, they cannot withstand giants, either. And if that comes, I will smite them where they stand for that man risks the safety of us all.

Katherine interrupts. “Chains him. Tight enough to hold him, no matter what. There is no time for idle chatter when the people’s lives and this island’s future hang in the balance.”

She draws the sharp sword from her belt and the room shifts uneasily. Faces pale, others I can tell, do not believe us.

I meet their eyes. “The Duke consents to this risk. But once the change comes, consent means nothing. You do what must be done.”

Then, I give the nod. “Do it.”

Dorian takes off his coat in silence, folds it once, and sets it on a nearby chair. He allows himself to be chained. The men hook him to whatever they can find.

Dorian doesn’t look at anyone, especially not Katherine. His hands only tremble slightly at his sides.

It is then that I lean forward, knowing anger will produce an instantaneous reaction.

“I am in love with Katherine,” I admit. I dig that knife in his heart, using her Christian name with full familiarity. “Perhaps when you are dead, we will marry.”

The room watches.

At first, nothing happens.

Dorian gasps. One of his arms snaps at the elbow, joints realigning, muscles bunching unnaturally under his skin. A black vein bursts across his neck and blooms like a vine up the side of his face. The whites of his eyes start to cloud, then vanish. Not fully black, not yet—but dark. Too dark.

He drops to his knees with a choking sound, one hand bracing against the floor. His fingers splay—then elongate. Nails stretch into claws with a wet crack .

Someone curses.

“Stand back,” I implore with a raised hand. “Do not draw your weapons unless I say so.”

Dorian raises his head and his jaw distends slightly. It tries to open wider than it should. His teeth lengthen. His body grows broader. His breath is no longer human. It comes in snarls and snarled words.

“I...am...still...here...” he grits. “I will kill you, black guard.”

But even that voice is fading. A rasp layered with something deeper.

Then a growl.

One man takes a half-step back.

Another fumbles for the hilt of his sword.

“Do not,” I warn again.

Katherine steps forward.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She drives the silver blade into his chest, hard and fast. Right through his heart.

He roars.

The sound that explodes from him is inhuman—a beast in agony, not a man in pain. His body jerks violently as blood pours from the wound.

Then, as quickly as it appears, it is gone.

The blood dies on contact with the air. Turns to dust. The wound sears at the edges and closes right before our eyes.

The transformation halts.

His claws remain. His eyes still shimmer darkly. But the beast pulls back—dragged into the cage again, for now. Dorian collapses forward, hands braced on the floor, panting.

The Duke…is inhuman.

And now the room knows.

Now they see.

One man stares in open horror. Another backs into the corner and begins whispering the Lord’s Prayer. A third simply sits down, jaw slack, muttering, “No. No. That’s not real. That’s not—”

Katherine kneels beside Dorian, blade still in hand.

She looks up at the rest of them.

“And that is why we chain him.”

The room is still, held by every man’s breath inside that room.

I step forward. “You have seen what we face. This is no legend or ghost story. This is the threat we carry beneath Ashwood. And more are coming. They are unlike His Grace. They cannot return to being human. They are demons, they will kill and they will destroy us if we do not stop them.”

Men nod.

“Now,” I say, “go. Begin the evacuation. Move swiftly, quietly, without panic. The future of Ashwood depends on us. After, we must plan for war.”