Ch 11: The Seeds in the Study
Ashford didn’t storm to his father’s study. He walked there with a clipped, precise pace, the tap of his boots on the stone floor echoing like gunshots in the quiet corridor. His face was a carefully arranged mask of controlled outrage.
He knocked once, sharply.
"Enter." The Duke’s voice was flat, devoid of expectation.
Ashford pushed the heavy door open. The Duke’s study was a room of shadows and silence. A large oak desk dominated the space, piled with neat stacks of ledgers and maps. A fire crackled low in the great hearth, but it did little to warm the chill of the place. The Duke stood by the tall window, his back to the door, looking out over his lands. He didn’t turn around.
"Father."
"Ashford." The Duke still didn’t turn. "I assume this is about the horse."
Ashford’s mask slipped for a second, surprise flickering across his face. Of course his father already knew. The man had eyes everywhere. He stepped further into the room, the scent of old books and cold stone filling his nostrils.
"It is," Ashford said, forcing his voice to stay level. "They took Angel. Just... saddled him and rode off. The stablemaster was too intimidated to refuse them."
"Intimidated by whom?" the Duke asked mildly, finally turning. His glacial eyes settled on his son. "By Abel? Or by his husband?"
Ashford swallowed his irritation. "By Orion, sir. He gave an order. As if he had the right."
"He does have the right," the Duke said, moving to stand behind his desk. He didn’t sit. He simply rested his knuckles on the polished wood. "Legally, morally, and by the terms of our contract with House Valen, Orion is Abel’s spouse. As such, he has the authority to manage Abel’s personal property. Within reason. Riding a horse is well within reason."
"Angel isn’t just *property*," Ashford argued, a sliver of genuine frustration seeping through. "He’s a Valerian warhorse. A symbol. He should be with a rider who can handle him, who can use him as intended. Not paraded around by an Omega who probably doesn’t know a destrier from a donkey, with my brother clinging to him like a child!"
The Duke watched him, his expression unreadable. "And who determines the proper ’use’ of the horse, Ashford? You?"
"Someone competent!"
"Abel was the one who broke him as a colt," the Duke said quietly. "He was the only one Angel ever bowed to. Until today." He paused. "The horse bowed to Abel again today, in front of you. Did he not?"
Ashford’s jaw tightened. That image burned. The mighty beast lowering its head in submission to the broken man. It was wrong. It was an insult to the animal’s strength.
"Sentimentality over a dumb animal shouldn’t override practical sense," Ashford retorted.
"This isn’t about sentiment," the Duke countered, his voice dropping into that softer, more dangerous register. "It’s about law. And perception. You made a scene in the stables. You provoked them. They responded by calmly exercising their rights. If you had left it alone, Angel would still be in his stall, under your control, and no one would be talking about it. Now, every groom who witnessed it is talking. They saw Abel reclaim something. They saw his husband defend that claim. You handed them a victory and made yourself look petty in the process."
The rebuke was delivered without heat, but it hit Ashford like a physical blow. His father wasn’t angry about the horse. He was disappointed in Ashford’s *strategy*. New chapters come out on novelping.com first.
"So I’m just to let them do as they please?" Ashford hissed.
"You are to act like the future Duke of this house," the Duke said firmly. "Not a jealous younger brother squabbling over toys. Your concern should be the grain tariffs from the southern provinces, not who sits on which horse." He finally sat down, pulling a ledger toward him, a clear dismissal. "The horse is legally Abel’s. Orion, as his spouse, has the rights of stewardship. There is nothing to ’do’ about it. The matter is closed."
The finality in his tone was absolute. Ashford stood there for a moment, seething, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to argue, to list every way Orion was an upstart, how Abel was a liability. But he saw the look in his father’s eyes—that weary, implacable focus already shifting back to columns of numbers and the problems that *actually* mattered to the duchy.
He had been dismissed. Outmaneuvered by an Omega and a madman, and now chastised by his father for noticing.
"Yes, Father," he ground out, the words ash in his mouth. He turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him with a soft, precise click that felt more violent than a slam.
In the hallway, the mask shattered.
Fury, hot and humiliated, flooded his veins. His breath came short. He strode away from the study, his boots pounding the stones.
Nothing to be done. Legally theirs. Act like a Duke. The words circled in his head, taunting him.
He took a turn into a lesser-used corridor, lined with tapestries that muffled sound. He needed air. He needed to smash something.
Then he saw her.
A maid, young and pretty with rosy cheeks, was carrying a basket of folded linens. She was humming, oblivious, rounding the corner just as Ashford stormed past.
He didn’t think. He moved.
In one swift motion, he grabbed her arm, spinning her around. The laundry basket tumbled from her grasp, spilling sheets onto the stone floor with a soft whump. Before she could cry out, he pulled her hard against him, his other hand coming up to cup the back of her head.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It was an act of domination, of reassertion. His lips were hard and demanding against hers. His tongue forced its way into her mouth. At the same time, his free hand slid roughly inside the open neckline of her simple dress, groping the soft swell of her breast, his fingers pinching a nipple through the thin fabric of her shift.
She gasped into his mouth—a sound of shock that quickly melted into a low, compliant moan. Her body went limp against his, pliant. Her own hands came up, not to push him away, but to clutch weakly at the sleeves of his coat.
Yes. This. This was how it was supposed to be.
An Omega—a real. Omega—submissive. Responsive. Yielding to an Alpha’s will without question, without defiance. Spreading their legs when commanded, moaning when touched, existing as a vessel for pleasure and obedience.
Not arguing. Not taking horses. Not looking at him with those cool, defiant eyes.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against hers. His hand remained inside her dress, possessively kneading her flesh. She panted, her eyes glazed, her lips swollen.
"My lord..." she whispered, a question and an invitation. This story is hosted at g.com.
"That Omega bitch," Ashford growled, the words tearing from him. "That smug, pretty little bitch. He took the horse. He made a fool of me in front of the stable hands. He acts like he owns the damn place."
The maid blinked, her desire-hazy mind processing his anger. A slow, understanding smile curved her bruised lips. She knew who he meant. Everyone below stairs was talking about the new Lord Orion, the one who’d faced down Lord Ashford and ridden off on the black devil of a horse.
She shifted in his grasp, pressing her body more firmly against his. One of her hands slid down his chest, over his stomach, coming to rest boldly on the front of his breeches, where his arousal was evident. She cupped him through the fabric, her touch knowing.
"Why so agitated, my lord?" she murmured, her voice a silken purr. She began to stroke him slowly, up and down. "We have lots of chances to take our revenge."
Ashford groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily into her hand. The fury began to transmute, channelled into a different, more familiar kind of heat. "What chances?" he breathed.
The maid leaned in, her mouth close to his ear. Her other hand still trapped his, holding it to her breast. "Tonight," she whispered. "The welcoming ceremony for the new wedds. All the important families will be here. Everyone will be watching them."
Ashford’s eyes, which had been closed in pleasure, snapped open. He looked down at her, seeing not just a convenient body, but a conspirator.
"Go on," he said, his voice rough.
"It’s a big, formal dinner. Speeches. Toasts. All eyes on the happy couple." Her fingers continued their lazy, teasing rhythm. "First impressions are everything, my lord. What if... the mad heir has one of his fits? In front of everyone? What if his new husband proves utterly incapable of calming him? Shows himself to be as weak and useless as everyone suspects?" She smiled wider, a cruel, pretty thing. "They’d be a laughingstock. The alliance would look like a farce. And you... you would be the dignified one. The one who has to step in and manage the family’s shame. Again."
The plan was simple. Elegant. It played right into the existing narrative: Abel was unstable, Orion was in over his head. All it would take was a little push. A well-placed word. A sudden, loud noise at the right moment. Something to send Abel spiraling into one of his confused, fearful states while the entire northern aristocracy looked on.
Orion, flustered and failing to control him. Ashford, the longsuffering, competent brother, gracefully containing the disaster.
It would undo today’s victory in the stables tenfold.
A fierce, dark satisfaction bloomed in Ashford’s chest, hotter than his arousal. He captured the maid’s mouth in another, briefer kiss, this one full of promise.
"You’re clever," he said, pulling back. He withdrew his hand from her dress, smoothing her rumpled collar with a gesture that was almost tender. "What’s your name?"
"Liana, my lord."
"Liana," he repeated, committing it to memory. "Keep that cleverness ready. I’ll find you after the ceremony. We’ll discuss your... reward."
She curtseyed, picking up her scattered linens with a practiced ease, her cheeks flushed with excitement and power. "Yes, my lord."
Ashford watched her go, the fury now cooled into a sharp, focused anticipation. He adjusted his coat, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face.
Let them have their afternoon ride. Let them whisper their sweet nothings.
Tonight, he would remind everyone—his father, the guests, and especially Orion—exactly how things stood in House Valerian. The mad heir and his upstart husband were temporary guests in a house whose true master was simply waiting for the right moment to show himself.