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Rupert

Rupert stumbled toward the bed in his room at the nearby village’s inn, taking a swig of the bottle of scotch as he went. He went to sit on the bed—and missed, landing hard on his arse. He blinked dazedly. Welp. He supposed the floor would do just as well. He kicked off his boots and then leaned back against the bed, staring at the spinning ceiling.

He was in very big bloody trouble. Almost a sennight into his marriage, and he could already see it for what it was. A battle he’d fight for the rest of his life. Him against his demons. And with every taste of her, it fed them, gave them strength. Made him weaker. What would happen when they finally won? Because that was where he was headed.

He took another swig, and the scotch burned down his throat, smoky fire lighting up his senses. Everything had been set out for him since the earliest he could remember. Follow this path and you’ll achieve your ambitions. And he’d worked bloody damn hard for it all. He’d received top marks at Harrow. Continued on at Oxford. Well, he’d received second-class honors.

His eyes fell shut as his mother’s disappointment washed over him, as acerbic as the alcohol. But it had been nearly impossible to keep up with the social calendar she’d drawn up for him and his studies. It was as though, each time he thought he'd succeeded in earning her approval, something else was added to the list. And he found himself lacking again. He’d tried so damn hard. The dinners, the hunts, political gatherings, the building connections. Something had to give. One person couldn’t possibly bear the weight of all those responsibilities.

You are not like other men, Rupert. Your future is exceptional.

Was it such a terrible thing…to long for normalcy? Simply a man, not a legacy.

His hollow laugh filled the quiet chamber. Normal? He couldn’t even achieve that. The way he behaved with his wife was so far from normal, it was laughable. Franny’s face swirled in his blurred vision. She drove him out of his mind. His blood thrummed. His demons purred.

Giving in to temptation is the mark of a weak man.

He ran the top of the bottle over his lips, recalling the softness of hers. He was. Weak. And exhausted. He tilted up the bottle and drew a long pull, barely feeling the burn at this point. Barely feeling the self-disgust slithering just under his skin. The room seemed darker now.

After so many years of direction, Rupert felt oddly…directionless.

He just needed a small reprieve. He’d regain his composure. Lock his demons securely away. Then everything would be fine. Then he’d be…

The room went black.