Page 3

Sam

Devonford Castle.

Sussex, England.

His brother was dead.

Samuel Thorne crushed his copy of The Times in his fist, his lip curling in a smirk. Served the bastard right. Disgust churned violently in his gut as he walked down the hall leading to the guest chambers of Devonford Castle, the article’s words playing over in his mind:

Highly respected.

Revered.

Bile rose up his throat.

Will be greatly missed.

A tragedy.

Sam scoffed. A tragedy? How utterly ironic.

Sam’s life story was the tragedy. But not the way his family’s lot viewed it.

What his brother’s death was, was deserved.

Justice. An all too familiar acidic animosity burned through him.

His white knuckled grip mangled the newspaper, and the muted crackle of rag paper cut through the silence of the empty hall.

Hearing about his family, no matter the reason, always dredged up a loathing Sam would never be able to rid himself of.

Left him raw, vulnerable—wounds normally well-hidden, now exposed for everyone to see.

And with that came the sharp, all-consuming desperation to lash out.

To hurt someone else the way he was hurting.

Even when it was glorious news like today. Because it was a reminder.

Nothing would ever make up for what they had done.

And to top it all off, Sam had just been given the unfortunate news he’d have to step in as manservant for one of their kind while the gentleman worked through betrothal discussions regarding his sister and the Duke’s son.

Just sodding lovely. It was one thing to valet for his best mate, Ash, the Duke of Devonford—the sole aristocrat with a heart in his chest. But to have to act as a servant to one of those entitled men?

He knocked on the door to the Earl of Bentley’s chamber.

The muscles on his broad shoulders stiffened. There was nothing he wanted to do less.

A deep “Enter” rumbled through the door, and Sam pushed into the bedchamber.

His gaze immediately clashed with a striking pair of amber eyes—deep, rich, and gleaming like burnished honey.

Something passed over those molten irises as they both stood perfectly still, watching each other. Taking stock of one another.

Barbarian. Brute. Heathen.

Words thrown at Sam on that fateful day, forever burned into his brain. Burned through his blood as he fought down the raw rage battling to break free. Because his family didn’t once stop to think Sam might be the victim.

Sam could practically see those same words splaying across the gentleman’s gaze as it slowly swept over him.

There was something dark in the man’s eyes, something about the tight way he held himself.

Like something foul had just stepped into his chamber.

A band tightened around Sam’s chest, and putrid, ugly resentment filled him.

It was suffocating. Just like the noose that had almost ended up around his neck.

He wasn’t exactly what noblemen envisioned when they thought of a manservant.

Broad and burly, with muscles that seemed to grow on him without any effort on his part.

Features that were rough, severe. He’d been the only one of his brothers to inherit the rugged imprint of their Scottish lineage.

And while Sam loved that it marked him as different from them , noblemen tended to regard him warily.

Like he was uncouth, purely because of his appearance.

Or maybe they could detect the vitriol that infused its way into his veins when in their presence.

Little did they know he was actually one of them.

Not anymore .

“My lord,” Sam murmured tightly and dipped a quick bow, not dropping the man’s stare.

He waited. It usually went one of two ways when he stepped in as manservant for a visitor. Either the fear slipped through in flinches and stutters, or they doubled down on arrogance. He wasn’t sure which sent his temper flaring more: being seen as a monster…or not being seen at all.

The man lifted his chin ever-so-slightly, his gaze sweeping over Sam, scrutinizing.

Arrogance it is. There was something about that stare, about the way the man imperceptibly rolled his shoulders back, as though he needed to reinforce his authority with his posture, as though he wanted to make Sam feel small.

But that’s what their lot did, wasn’t it?

They looked down on everyone. Even those, like Sam, who towered over them.

Because heaven forbid it be questioned that they were above the rest of the world.

Lord Bentley’s jaw flexed, and Sam’s attention locked onto the small movement.

He didn’t have the sharp, hard jaw Sam had.

He was…softer. Sam finally allowed himself to take in the man before him—and for the barest of moments, his anger slipped.

Holy fucking shite. The man was walking, breathing sex.

If one merged Adonis and Aphrodite, it would be this man.

Hot agitation rushed back through Sam. Of course he would be handsome.

A sneer tugged at Sam’s lips, but he forced them to remain flat.

Just his bloody luck. The nobility was crawling with soulless bastards, ones who would wrap a noose around a person’s neck to protect their own.

But most at least had the good grace to be ugly.

“I rang for you thirty minutes ago.”

The amount of displeasure and entitlement in that one sentence was impressive. Sam had to hand it to the man—that was a textbook display of aristocratic superiority.

Bravo, my lord. You excel at being an arse. Your family must be so proud.

“My apologies, my lord ,” Sam said, flashing a mocking smile. “It won’t happen again. How may I be of service?”

Lord Bentley’s eyes narrowed, then he turned and strode to his dressing table.

Sam didn’t miss how the man avoided putting his back to Sam, watching from the corner of his eye the entire way to the table.

Because obviously, being the barbarian he was, Sam was going to murder the swell the second the man turned his back.

Sam’s eyes ached with the effort it took not to roll them.

The man stiffly lowered himself into the chair at his dressing table and cast a pointed glance at his boots. “Off with these. There’s little time before dinner, so brush down and press a few garments with haste. You may unpack my trunk afterward.”

I may? Well, how bloody fabulous for me!

Sam let out a slow, inaudible breath. Servant.

You are a servant . All things considered, the order wasn’t overtly rude.

Even if the man’s low baritone oozed condescension.

He closed his eyes briefly and tried to rein in his contempt.

Get your head screwed on straight, Sam .

Could Sam truly blame the man for his displeasure, considering he might be late for dinner now? Well, yes. Sam could. But he knew that was his prejudices talking. For all he knew, the man was a jolly fellow, always up for a jest and a cheeky limerick.

His stare dropped to the man’s mouth. Damn . That mouth . For all he knew, the man was up for a fuck as well. No. Absolutely not. Sam was never doing that again.

Sam dropped to a knee before Lord Bentley, and the man flinched.

Sam’s gaze flew up, but Lord Bentley’s attention was fixed somewhere over Sam’s head.

Tension radiated from the man, his pulse ticking erratically against the pale skin of his neck.

Sam hadn’t realized one could actually see another person’s pulse, but the gent was so tightly wound, so clearly on edge.

Like he wanted to bolt from the room. And the only thing Sam could assume was causing that, was… Sam.

Barbarian. Brute. Heathen.

His stare dropped back to the man’s boot, and something inside of him fell with it.

His fingers shook, nerves skittering through his veins, hardening his muscles as they passed.

This wasn’t like all those years ago. No one was going to barge in on something they shouldn’t see.

No one was going to cry rape to save their own skin.

And no family remained who would so readily hand their own son over to the law.

Sam gripped the man’s boot, his other hand wrapping around Lord Bentley’s calf.

The man’s thighs went rigid, the fabric of his fawn breeches stretching over muscles gone stiff as granite.

Now, this was getting blasted ridiculous.

Was the swell that disgusted by Sam he couldn’t even stand Sam’s touch?

How else was Sam supposed to remove the man’s bloody boots?

Sam’s gaze lifted to meet Lord Bentley’s, and he saw it, plain as day.

Fear glimmered back at him. His lungs stalled, and he had to force himself to draw in air, because seeing that fear had the memories rushing back.

Sam’s eyes moved down to a pair of offended lips, pressed tight yet still annoyingly full.

To high cheekbones, features that were almost feline.

Those amber eyes could easily belong to a lion—one born to reign, a lion among men.

And what did men like that do when they were threatened?

A different visage flashed in his mind. Barely there and then gone.

Sam knew firsthand what they did. They eliminated the threat.

“Well, don’t just sit there,” Lord Bentley gritted out, his voice high, strained. “You do know how to remove a boot, do you not? I was informed I would have access to the Duke’s valet. I assumed that implied a certain level of competence on your part.”

Prejudices be damned. This man was an arsehat. He was going to take one look at Sam and judge him? Well, Sam had been in this cove’s presence long enough to know exactly the kind of man he was. Sam would bloody judge him, too. Arrogant prick.

Sam held the man’s gaze and, with deliberate slowness, pulled the boot off. The man’s nostrils flared. And perhaps Sam should have left it at that small show of disrespect. But in that moment, it was all too much.

His past dredged up by news of his brother.

His present reality of serving one of those men he despised.

The cold, lonely future he was destined for because of what they had done to him.

Everything boiled over and came spilling out in a sharp, bitter retort. “Should I remove the other boot as well? I wasn’t certain, given my low level of competence .”

Lord Bentley’s eyes flared wide, and his fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. “Did your mother teach you nothing about respect? You dare speak to your betters with such insolence?”

The rage bred and multiplied in Sam’s chest. Hot and hideous and hostile. Oh, Sam’s mother had taught him all about respect—by turning her back as they dragged him away.

“No, my lord,” Sam said, his voice sickly-sweet. “I saved that just for you.”

They stared at each other, neither speaking. But they didn’t need to. The mutual antipathy hung heavy in the air, as cloying as the stench of piss and filth that filled the dank, dark cells of Newgate. A stench Sam would never, ever be able to forget.

Thank the bloody gods Sam only had to endure the bastard’s presence until tomorrow morning. Betrothal discussions would be over, wedding bells would ring, and then he’d never have to see Lord Bentley again.