Page 48 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

The Ashwood Gazette

JUSTICE:

ASHWOOD KILLER APPREHENDED

The good people of Ashwood may take comfort in knowing that recent disturbances troubling the estate and surrounding lands have been satisfactorily resolved.

Through the commendable efforts of the Bow Street Runners, under the steadfast direction of Lord Gabriel Hawke, the individual responsible for these unfortunate events—a servant in the household of the late Dowager Duchess—has been detained and will be taken to meet his fate.

The community mourns the passing of Her Grace, Dowager Duchess of Ashwood, whose life was marked by kindness and dignity. Her loss is deeply felt by all who knew her.

His Grace, the Duke of Ashwood, Lord Dorian Storm, continues to oversee the care and restoration of the estate. By his side remains the Duchess of Ashwood, Lady Katherine Storm, a source of strength during these trying times.

The Bow Street Runners are to be heartily commended for their service in upholding law and order, thereby preserving the honour of the Ashwood name and assuring the safety of the shire.

As calm returns to Ashwood and its environs, may this occasion serve as a reminder of the vigilance necessary to protect the peace and well-being of all.

God save the King.

— An Ashwood Correspondent

KATHERINE

T he breakfast room is warm with the early sun beaming through lace-curtained windows. Mrs. Grange lays out the morning’s tray, ever dutiful despite what greets her. The scent of toasted bread and black tea wafts up my nostrils.

Dorian sits at the head of the table .

A monstrous finger rests delicately on the rim of a porcelain teacup — one of the Parisian set I expressly told him not to touch in that form. As his black eyes scan the table, his scalp grazes the chandelier and they tinkle.

And of course, he is naked.

Crimson, muscled, monstrous — and entirely, unapologetically unclothed.

“Dorian,” I say, setting down my toast with great care.

He glances up, and his teeth peek through a sheepish smile. “Yes, my love?”

“You are naked.”

He looks down, as if this is news to him.

“I’m in demon form,” he offers, as though that constitutes a valid excuse.

“That was not a question.”

He blinks. “You asked—”

“I delivered rules.”

He clears his throat — a sound which emerges like a rumble of distant thunder — and lifts the teacup. It shatters neatly between his fingers.

He frowns at the remains. “That one was thinner than I expected.”

“That one was Sèvres. A gift from the King’s cousin.” I sip my tea with great poise. “You’ll write the apology.”

“To the cousin?”

“To France.”

He leans forward and clasps a massive hand upon the table. “ I’m practising.”

“For what, precisely?”

“Control.”

I arch a brow. “You are quite literally pressing your scrotum into the silk brocade of an heirloom chair.”

He looks down. “Ah. Yes. I hadn’t noticed.”

“You never notice. Last week, you tore three waistcoats.”

“I apologised to the waistcoat.”

“You hissed at the vicar when his back was turned.”

“It was a gesture of goodwill.”

“Your jaw unhinged.”

“He did not see!”

He leans back again and takes up a fork. It bends immediately beneath the pressure of his grip. I glance at the ruined cutlery and then at him. He grins, unrepentant. “You are ravishing when you’re exasperated.”

“And you are a menace,” I rise from my chair and walk to stand beside him. I rest a hand on his shoulder.

Still, he is mine.

“I would like, just once, to enjoy breakfast without your genitals making an appearance.”

He huffs, which sends a puff of heat across the table and ruffles the paper.

“I like this form,” he says. “And so do you…when it suits.”

“Yes, I quite enjoy your suits.”

He sighs, the way a beast sighs when his wife chastises him. “I’ll go change.”

“Good.”

He rises, careful not to knock over the candelabra, and walks toward the doorway.

His tail swishes as he goes. It knocks over a chair.

He does not stop. As he disappears into the corridor, I return to my toast. There is a long silence as I resume eating.

From somewhere upstairs, comes splintering wood and a frustrated growl.

“William, have you seen my breeches?!”

I lift my cup and take a slow, deliberate sip.

Marriage, it turns out, is very little like the stories say. Miraculous things do happen inside the mundane. But it is the mundane that I live for.