They walked back to the estate hand in hand, the setting sun casting long shadows through the trees. They were a mess. Abel’s shirt was slung over his shoulder, his hair a wild, damp tangle. Orion’s thin undershirt and trousers were soaked through, clinging to him, dripping with every step. His hair was plastered down, and he could feel the chill of the evaporating water beginning to set in.
But he didn’t care. For the first time since arriving, his mind felt quiet. The memory of the waterfall, of Abel’s laughter, of Angel’s playful kicks—it all sat inside him like a warm stone.
That warmth began to cool the moment they stepped out of the wooded path and onto the manicured lawn that led to Ironstone’s rear terraces.
Servants were tending to the evening lamps. A gardener was trimming a hedge. They all stopped what they were doing and stared.
The silence was thick, broken only by the soft squelch of their boots on the grass and the steady drip... drip... drip of water from Orion’s clothes.
Then the murmurs started. Not loud, but sharp, carrying on the still evening air.
"Look at the state of them..."
"...soaked to the bone, like street urchins..."
"And the Master... shirtless. Has he no decency left?"
"It’s the Omega’s job to manage him. Clearly failing at that, too."
Orion kept his eyes forward, his grip on Abel’s hand tightening slightly. He focused on the towering back doors of the keep. Just get inside. Get to their rooms. Ignore them.
Abel, however, heard the whispers. His head turned, his golden eyes scanning the frozen servants. He didn’t look angry. He looked confused, his brow furrowing as he tried to parse their disapproving stares. He moved a little closer to Orion, a subconscious protective shift.
They had just reached the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the terrace when a figure appeared at the top.
The Duchess.
Eleanor Valerian stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the warm lamplight of the hall. She was a statue of grey silk and perfect posture. Her hands were clasped neatly in front of her. Her expression was not one of shock or anger, but of profound, icy disappointment. It was far worse.
She descended the steps slowly, her gaze sweeping over them from head to toe. Her nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly at the smell of damp wool and pond water.
Orion stopped, pulling Abel to a halt beside him. He forced himself to meet her eyes, to not look away.
The Duchess came to a stop two steps above them, forcing them to look up at her. The remaining servants had fallen utterly silent, watching avidly. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
"Orion," she said, his name a soft, chilling note. "What is the meaning of this?"
"We went for a ride, Your Grace," Orion said, keeping his voice level. "We found a waterfall."
"I can see that," she replied, her tone dry as dust. Her eyes flicked to Abel’s bare torso, then away, as if the sight pained her. "You have returned to your home, the seat of a Ducal house, looking like... like drowned rats pulled from a millrace." She said it quietly, but every word was clear and carried. "It is undignified."
"We were just—" Orion began.
"I am not finished," she cut him off, her voice still soft, but with a steel core that brooked no interruption. Her eyes locked onto his. "It is your responsibility, as his husband, to guide him. To ensure his behavior remains... appropriate. To be the steadying influence he so clearly lacks."
She took a deliberate step down, now on the same level, though she still seemed to tower over them. "You are not a child, Orion. You are a Valen, and now a Valerian by marriage. There are expectations. Standards. By allowing this—by participating in this—you are not helping him. You are enabling his decline. You are making a spectacle of him. Of yourself. Of this family."
Each sentence was a needle, precise and cold. Orion felt the heat of shame rise up his neck, but beneath it, a hotter, angrier fire began to spark. He opened his mouth to defend himself, to explain about the horse, the memory, the moment of peace.
But Abel spoke first.
He had been listening, his confusion deepening into something else. He looked from his mother’s stern face to Orion’s tense one. He didn’t understand the big words—’undignified,’ ’enabling,’ ’spectacle.’ But he understood the tone. He understood the disapproval. And he understood that she was blaming Orion.
"No," Abel said, the word simple and firm.
The Duchess blinked, turning her winter-sea gaze to her son. "Abel, dear, you don’t understand."
"I do," Abel insisted. He let go of Orion’s hand and stepped forward, putting himself slightly between Orion and his mother. He was dripping, shirtless, a giant of a man, but his expression was earnest, not threatening. "It was my idea. The bath. I showed him the waterfall. Angel showed me. It’s a good place. Orion was... he was careful. He didn’t want to get his shirt wet." He said it like it was the most important evidence in their defense.
Eleanor’s lips tightened. "That is not the point, Abel. The point is how it looks. You cannot roam the countryside half-dressed. You cannot drag your husband through the mud."
"It wasn’t mud. It was water. Clean water," Abel argued, his voice rising with frustration. "And he’s not dragged. He came with me. He laughed." He looked back at Orion, seeking confirmation. "You laughed."
Orion’s throat was tight. He gave a tiny nod.
"See?" Abel said to his mother, as if that settled everything.
The Duchess closed her eyes for a brief second, a flicker of profound weariness crossing her features. When she opened them, the frost was back. "Laughter is not a justification for indecency. For shaming your house." New chapters come out on novelping . com first.
"We didn’t shame anything!" Abel’s voice grew louder, echoing off the stone walls. A few servants flinched. "We were just playing! It was fun! Why does everything here have to be so... so still?!"
The last word was almost a shout. It hung in the air. The accusation in it was childish, but it cut to a truth Orion felt in his bones.
Eleanor’s composure cracked for a single, visible instant. A flash of pain, deep and old, showed in her eyes before it was buried under fresh ice. She drew herself up.
"Because ’still’ is what is required," she said, her voice dangerously quiet now. "’Still’ is order. ’Still’ is dignity. ’Fun’..." she said the word as if it were a mildly disgusting thing, "...is for children. And for those who have the luxury of not caring what the world thinks."
She turned her attention back to Orion, dismissing Abel’s outburst. "You will both go upstairs immediately. You will bathe—properly, in a bathing chamber. You will dress for dinner. And you will remember where you are."
She paused, letting the command sink into the damp, uncomfortable silence. Then she delivered the final blow.
"Tonight," she said, her eyes boring into Orion’s, "there is a formal reception in the Grand Hall. The local gentry, several barons, and representatives from the capital will be here to... acknowledge your marriage."
Orion’s stomach dropped. A party. A public spectacle.
"It is a necessary formality," the Duchess continued, as if reading his horror. "A chance for this alliance to be seen as strong. Stable." Her gaze swept over their dripping forms once more, full of meaning. "You will be on display. You will be courteous. You will be contained."
She took a step back up, reclaiming the higher ground. "Do not embarrass this household, Orion. The consequences would extend far beyond a disapproving lecture. For you, and for him."
With that final, weighted threat, she turned and glided back up the steps and into the keep, leaving them standing in the gathering dusk, cold, wet, and with the fragile peace of the waterfall shattered completely.
The servants slowly went back to work, their glances now hurried and secretive.
Abel was trembling, but not from the cold. He was looking at the spot where his mother had stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "She’s wrong," he whispered, his voice rough. "It wasn’t bad. We weren’t bad."
Orion reached out and took his hand again. It was cold now. "I know," he said softly. But the Duchess’s words echoed in his head: Do not embarrass this household.
The walls of his new life, which had felt briefly transparent by the waterfall, had just become solid stone again. And tonight, he would have to navigate them in front of an entire crowd of hungry, judging eyes.