Ashford watched from a shadowed alcove behind a heavy velvet curtain, a male Omega clinging to his arm. He had a perfect view of the main floor. He’d seen the scribe’s arrival, heard the pitiful dowry list, and watched the wave of derisive amusement sweep through the hall.
A slow, cold smile spread across his face. He took a sip of wine, the taste sweet on his tongue.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice low enough that only the Omega at his side could hear. "This is even better than I thought."
The Omega, a pretty young man with silver hair and wide eyes, looked up at him nervously. "My lord?"
"The stage is set perfectly," Ashford said, his pale blue eyes fixed on Orion’s rigid back, on Abel’s white-knuckled grip on that ridiculous toy. "Humiliated, isolated, raw. Now they just need the final push."
He finished his wine in one smooth motion and set the empty glass on a passing servant’s tray.
He gave the Omega in his arms a dismissive pat. "Wait here."
Behind the curtain, Liana appeared like a ghost. Her maid’s uniform was crisp, her expression composed, but her eyes glittered with anticipation. She held a heavy silver tray laden with delicate crystal flutes of sparkling wine.
"My lord?" she whispered.
Ashford glanced at the tray, then back at the scene on the floor. Orion was still standing frozen, the whispers swirling around him. Abel was staring at the broken pieces of his pride on the floor—his family’s public rejection.
"Perfect timing," Ashford said, his smile sharpening. "Remember, it’s an accident. A tragic, clumsy accident."
Liana nodded once, her lips curving into a thin, determined line. "Of course, my lord. A terrible shame."
She slipped out from behind the curtain, blending seamlessly into the flow of servants circulating with refreshments. Ashford watched her go, then leaned back against the wall, folding his arms.
The show was about to begin.
Orion was trying to breathe. The laughter had faded, replaced by a low, buzzing gossip. He could feel every gaze like a physical weight. Abel’s hand was a vise around his, the only real thing in the spinning room.
"We should..." Orion started to say, his voice barely a whisper. "We should find somewhere..."
Before he could finish, a maid stepped quickly into their path, carrying a large silver tray piled high with glasses. She was moving with purpose, head down.
"Pardon, my lords," she said, her voice breathless, as she tried to maneuver around them.
It happened too fast.
Her hip brushed against Abel’s arm—the arm holding the wooden horse.
It wasn’t a hard bump.
But it was enough.
The small, carved toy flew from Abel’s grip. It hit the polished marble floor with a sharp, sickening crack.
The sound echoed in the hushed hall.
The horse skittered across the stone, coming to rest against the leg of a table. Its front left leg was snapped clean off. Its head was cracked along the seam of the carving.
Silence.
Abel looked down.
He stared at the broken toy.
His face, which had been tense and confused, went utterly blank.
The maid, Liana, gasped. She dropped into a deep curtsy, the tray wobbling precariously in her hands.
"Oh! Forgive me, my lords! I am so sorry! I didn’t see—it was an accident!"
Orion’s heart sank. He bent quickly, scooping up the two pieces of the horse.
"It’s alright," he said to the maid, his voice tight. "No harm done. It’s just wood. We can fix it."
He held the pieces out to Abel.
"See? It’s not so bad. A little glue..."
But Abel wasn’t looking at the pieces in Orion’s hand.
He was staring at the maid, who was still bowed low, her face a mask of theatrical remorse.
"You broke it," Abel said.
His voice was flat, devoid of its usual warmth.
Liana peeked up, her eyes wide and wet. "I am so sorry, my lord! It was an accident, I swear!"
Abel took a slow step forward.
Orion instinctively moved to stand between them, but Abel was focused solely on the maid.
"You broke it," he repeated, the words gaining a strange, heavy weight. "You broke my horsey. You broke it." New chapters come out on g.com first.
A ripple went through the nearby guests. They were watching openly now, drinks forgotten.
This was more interesting than the dowry gossip.
"Abel," Orion said firmly, taking his arm. "It’s okay. She said it was an accident. We can fix it later."
Abel shook off his grip without even looking at him.
His gaze was locked on the crying maid. His golden-brown eyes, usually so warm, had gone dark and distant.
"No," he said, the word quiet but final. "I want this one. She broke it. She broke my toy."
His voice wasn’t rising.
It was sinking, becoming deeper, rougher.
It was a tone Orion had never heard from him before.
Liana let out a soft sob and crumpled fully to her knees on the floor, covering her face with her hands.
"Please, my lord, forgive me! I’m just a clumsy maid!"
The performance was masterful.
She looked utterly shattered.
The crowd murmured, their sympathies instantly swaying.
The poor maid, terrified of the unstable heir’s rage.
The mad Alpha, throwing a tantrum over a child’s toy.
Orion’s blood ran cold.
He saw the trap now, clear as day.
The public humiliation, the broken token of comfort, the perfectly timed "accident."
This was no coincidence.
"Abel, look at me," Orion commanded, stepping directly in front of him, forcing Abel to meet his eyes. "We are leaving. Right now. Bring the pieces. We will fix it together."
For a second, he thought he’d gotten through.
Abel’s eyes flickered, focusing on Orion’s face.
Then Liana wailed from the floor, "I shall be dismissed! My family!"
Abel’s attention snapped back to her.
The fragile connection shattered.
His face changed.
It wasn’t anger, not exactly.
It was something colder, older, and far more terrifying.
The lines of his face seemed to sharpen, the warmth draining away to leave something stark and ancient.
It was the face of a Valerian heir, not a gentle giant.
It was the face of a man who had once led men into battle.
"You," he said, the single word dropping into the silence like a stone.
He took another step towards the cowering maid.
Panic seized Orion.
He grabbed Abel’s jacket with both hands.
"Abel, stop! Don’t look at her! Look at me!"
But Abel wasn’t listening.
He was in a different place.
The noise of the party, the laughing faces, the broken toy, the crying servant—it was all a tangled knot tightening around a core of pure, simple injustice.
She broke what was mine.
"She can’t fix it here!" Orion pleaded, his own composure cracking. He could feel the hundreds of eyes on them, see the Duke’s furious glare from across the room, the Duchess’s hand pressed to her mouth. "We need to go! Please, Abel, come with me!"
He pulled hard on Abel’s arm.
Abel resisted.
He was a mountain.
He looked down at Orion, and for a horrible moment, there was no recognition in his eyes.
Just a vague annoyance at an obstacle.
From the crowd, Ashford’s voice cut through, smooth and concerned.
"Brother, control yourself. It’s a toy. You’re frightening the girl."
That did it.
Abel’s head turned slowly towards the sound of his brother’s voice.
Seeing Ashford’s smug, pitying face was like throwing oil on a smoldering fire.
A low sound rumbled in Abel’s chest.
It wasn’t a growl, not quite.
It was the vibration of something massive straining against chains.
"You," Abel breathed, his focus shifting from the maid to Ashford.
The source of all the poison.
Orion saw it—the dangerous redirecting of that building storm.
He shoved himself bodily between Abel and Ashford’s direction.
"No! Abel, look at me! It’s Orion! Your husband! Listen to me!"
He grabbed Abel’s face, forcing his gaze down.
Their eyes met, inches apart.
For a heartbeat, the darkness in Abel’s eyes wavered.
A flicker of confusion.
"Orion...?"
"Yes," Orion said, desperation making his voice shake. "It’s me. You’re scaring me. I need you to come with me. Right now. Take my hand."
He held out his hand, the one not clutching the broken horse.
Abel looked at the hand.
He looked at Orion’s pale, terrified face.
The external chaos seemed to recede for a second, pushed back by the familiar, safe point of Orion’s presence.
He blinked slowly.
Then, from the floor, Liana chose that exact moment to scramble backwards, her shoes scraping loudly on the marble as if fleeing a monster.
The movement was sudden, noisy, and perfectly designed to trigger a reactive instinct.
Abel flinched, his head snapping towards the sound.
The fragile thread of connection snapped.
With a roar that seemed to shake the crystal chandeliers, Abel threw off Orion’s hands.
It wasn’t a violent shove aimed at Orion, but a blind, furious lashing out at the world closing in on him.
Orion stumbled back, crashing into a table.
Glasses shattered around him.
The Grand Hall erupted into screams.
Abel stood in the center of the chaos, chest heaving, his eyes wild and unseeing, a cornered beast surrounded by hunters.
All the planning, all the patience, had led to this perfect, public moment of madness.
And from the shadows, Ashford watched, his cold smile finally reaching his eyes.
The performance was flawless.