Page 18

Felix

Felix walked up to the bell pull for the hundredth time that night.

He stopped, attention fixed on the crimson fabric—the same deep red as the curtains draped around his bed.

An intricate floral pattern in gold, ivory, and ebony wound down the length of fabric.

The gilt handle gleamed, the flickering flame of the candlelight dancing across the ornate surface.

Nothing had technically happened between him and Thorne before.

There was nothing to deny. As long as Felix didn’t pull that handle.

If Felix rang, there was only one way this night was going. His skin prickled, restless anticipation; decades of denying himself coursed through him. He wasn’t sleeping tonight. Whether or not he rang for Thorne.

Take this for yourself.

One night.

His body jerked to turn away again, but he somehow managed to keep his feet planted.

He reached for the pull, stopped just before his fingers reached it.

His lungs constricted, throat closing. He slammed his eyes shut tight.

That night came rushing back, and Felix let it, let it close in over him, let him sink into its cold, crushing depths.

William’s nose grazing his.

A soft kiss brushed across his lips.

Lazy kisses trailing down his neck—like Felix was someone to be cherished.

A quick, “I’ll be right back.” That final, blinding smile.

Then chaos.

Shouts. Banging. Breaking glass.

His breath sawed in and out, the blind panic closing over his throat. The memories still too real.

Rough hands seized his arms. Yanked them behind his back. Cold iron closing over his wrists.

Trapped.

Amid the shouting, the grunts, the screams of fear and pain, he’d looked up.

And there they were, those same eyes.

Not warm, not soft.

Those lips that had kissed him so tenderly moments ago curled up in a sneer of disgust.

It’d all been a lie. A scheme to entrap him.

Fucked by the enemy.

Felix jolted, the next memory striking like a slap.

William in the courtroom. Calm. Composed. Certain.

“I have witnessed this man committing a most unnatural and heinous crime with another man.”

A sharp shuddering breath burst from him, and his eyes snapped open. His hand was pressed against the wall next to the bell pull, his chest heaving, lungs desperately pulling in air.

He didn’t know if he could trust Thorne.

He didn’t trust the man. Maybe that’s why this felt different.

This wasn’t like with William Minton. There was no trickery.

Both Felix and Thorne knew exactly where they stood with each other.

And Felix was in a safe place this time, surrounded by people who would defend him, who supported men like him, and were men in power.

There would be no raid. No shouts and screams. No harsh grips and forceful shoves. No cell doors clanging shut behind him.

His fingers curled into the wall, fingernails scratching against cool stone. No one would lay their hands on the Earl of Bentley. No one would find out.

One night.

He’d erase William Minton from his mind.

One night.

He pulled the rope.