The roar was still echoing in the cavernous hall when Abel moved.
It wasn’t a calculated attack. It was a primal lunge, a massive body propelled by a storm of overloaded senses and a single, burning thought: Threat. Noise. Movement.
He didn’t go for Ashford. He went for the source of the last, triggering sound—the scrambling maid.
Liana screamed, a genuine, piercing shriek of terror as the huge Alpha bore down on her. She scrambled backwards on her hands and heels, her face a mask of real fear now—the plan had worked too well.
Orion, sprawled amidst shattered crystal and spilled wine, saw it happen in horrible slow motion.
"NO! ABEL, STOP!"
His voice tore from his throat, raw and desperate.
He tried to push himself up, but his hands slipped on the wet floor.
"PLEASE STOP!"
But Abel was beyond words.
A blur of blue silk and furious motion shot past Orion.
Before Abel could reach the cowering maid, a figure stepped into his path.
Duke Valerius.
The Duke moved with a shocking speed for a man of his age and dignity. He didn’t shout. He simply planted himself, his own considerable frame blocking his son’s charge.
"Abel!" The Duke’s voice cracked through the chaos like a whip.
For a fraction of a second, Abel faltered, confusion battling the rage. His father’s face, stern and cold, was a fragment of memory in the fog.
It was enough.
The Duke didn’t wait. "Guards! Restrain him!"
They were already moving. Not the household footmen, but the Duke’s personal guard—men in dark leather and steel who had been stationed discreetly around the perimeter of the hall.
Six of them converged first.
They tried to grab his arms.
Abel swung. It was a blind, powerful sweep of his arm. Two guards went flying, crashing into a group of shrieking nobles.
Four more guards piled on, trying to bear him down by weight alone.
Abel bucked like a stallion, throwing them off. He wasn’t fighting with skill; he was fighting with pure, terrified strength. Another roar tore from his lungs, vibrating with a depth that made the fine china on the tables tremble.
More guards rushed in.
It took twelve of them.
Twelve armed, trained men to finally wrestle the heir to the marble floor.
They didn’t hit him. They used their bodies as living chains, pinning his limbs, holding his head down. One guard had his entire weight across Abel’s shoulders, another locked his legs around Abel’s thighs. They grunted and strained, their faces red with effort.
Beneath them, Abel fought silently now, his muscles corded and trembling, his cheek pressed against the cold stone. His eyes were open, staring at nothing, seeing only the internal storm.
The silence that followed was worse than the noise.
It was a thick, stunned quiet, broken only by the ragged breathing of the guards, the soft sobs of frightened guests, and the slow drip of wine from the overturned table.
Orion finally got to his feet. He stood there, grey robes stained with red wine, his face pale as parchment. He looked at the pile of men holding his husband down. He looked at the Duke, whose expression was carved from ice. He looked at the sea of aristocratic faces—horrified, fascinated, disgusted.
The murmurs started then, low and venomous.
"...completely unhinged..."
"...a danger to everyone..."
"...they should lock him away..."
"...and to think they let that Omega near him..."
"...the poor maid, she could have been killed..." Get faster updates on g.com.
Liana was being helped up by other servants, weeping dramatically into her apron. Ashford had emerged from the shadows, his face a perfect portrait of grave concern.
"The strain of the evening," Ashford said loudly, for the benefit of the crowd. "It was too much for him. We must get him to his rooms. For his own safety."
The Duke gave a single, sharp nod. "Take him to the west tower. The quiet rooms. Now."
The guards began the arduous task of hauling Abel to his feet, keeping him tightly restrained. He didn’t resist anymore. The fight had gone out of him, leaving behind a hollow, shaking shell. He allowed himself to be half-dragged, half-carried towards a side exit, his head bowed.
As he passed Orion, his eyes flickered up.
For a second, they met Orion’s gaze.
There was no anger there. No recognition of the triumph Ashford had engineered.
Only a deep, drowning confusion.
And shame.
Then he was gone, ushered out of the hall, away from the ruin of the party.
The Duke turned to the assembled guests, raising his hands. "My apologies for this... distressing interruption. The evening is concluded. Carriages will be summoned."
It was a dismissal, cold and final.
The guests didn’t need to be told twice. They fled in a rustle of silks and a buzz of excited whispers, already crafting the story they would tell tomorrow.
Orion was left standing alone in the wreckage.
A servant approached him cautiously. "Master Orion, shall I escort you...?"
Orion didn’t answer. He just turned and walked out of the Grand Hall, his steps silent on the marble. He didn’t go towards the west tower. He went back to their chambers.
The fire had burned low to embers.
Orion sat on the floor in front of the hearth, his fine grey clothes still damp and stained. In his lap lay the two pieces of the wooden horse.
His hands were shaking.
He had found a pot of glue in a writing desk. Now he was trying, with trembling fingers, to apply a tiny drop to the broken edge of the horse’s leg.
The tear fell before he realized he was crying.
It splashed onto the wood, smearing the glue.
He made a frustrated, choked sound and wiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist, leaving a dark streak.
The door opened quietly.
Orion didn’t look up.
He heard heavy, slow footsteps. He heard the rustle of fabric as someone settled onto the floor across from him.
He kept his eyes on the horse, blinking hard to clear his vision.
For a long time, there was only the crackle of the embers and the shaky sound of Orion’s breathing as he tried again to align the pieces.
"I’m sorry."
The voice was so soft, so small, it was almost unrecognizable.
Orion’s hands stilled. He didn’t look up.
"I’m sorry," Abel repeated, the words thick. "I broke the party. I scared everyone."
Orion swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He finally lifted his gaze.
Abel sat cross-legged on the rug. They’d taken the fine blue jacket from him. He wore only a simple white shirt, untucked and rumpled, and his trousers. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He looked exhausted. He looked young.
He was looking at Orion’s face, at the tear tracks.
His own face crumpled.
"Don’t cry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Please don’t cry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
He reached out a hand, then pulled it back, as if afraid to touch.
Orion looked down at the broken toy in his hands. The symbol of everything that had gone wrong.
"Yes, it is," Abel said, with a terrible, simple certainty. "I got loud. I pushed. I broke things. I made you fall." His eyes filled. "I saw you fall."
"They set you up, Abel," Orion said, forcing the words out. "Ashford. That maid. It was a trick. They wanted you to... to look like that."
Abel shook his head slowly, not understanding the strategy, only the result. "But I did it. I did look like that." A tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. "Everyone saw. They’re scared of me now."
He wrapped his arms around himself, a defensive, childlike gesture.
"They took me to a room. A little room. With soft walls. They left me there." He shuddered. "It was quiet. Too quiet. Then they brought me here. They said... they said you were fixing my horse."
His eyes dropped to the pieces in Orion’s lap.
"Can you fix it?" he asked, a fragile hope in his voice.
"I’m trying," Orion whispered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The glue was getting everywhere except where it needed to be.
Abel watched him struggle for another minute. Then, very slowly, he shifted closer. He didn’t reach for the horse. He reached for Orion’s hands.
His large, warm hands closed gently around Orion’s trembling ones, stilling them.
"Let me help," Abel murmured.
He guided Orion’s hands, aligning the broken leg to the body with a surprising, innate precision. He held them steady while Orion applied the glue. Together, they pressed the pieces together, holding them tight.
They sat like that for a long time, hands clasped around the mending toy, foreheads nearly touching.
The only sound was their shared, unsteady breathing.
"I didn’t mean to scare you," Abel said into the quiet, his voice muffled. "Never you."
"I know," Orion said, and this time he meant it.
"I don’t like it when I’m like that," Abel confessed, a secret shame. "It’s dark. And loud inside my head. And I can’t find the door."
Orion finally looked up at him. He saw the fear, the shame, the profound exhaustion. He also saw the person beneath the storm—the one who had waited for him in a sunbeam, who called him ’Mine,’ who was sitting here now, heartbroken because Orion was crying.
"The door is me," Orion said softly, the realization dawning even as he spoke the words. "When it gets dark and loud, you look for me. I’ll be the door."
Abel’s breath hitched. He searched Orion’s face. "You promise?"
"I promise."
Abel nodded, a slow, solemn movement. He believed him.
They held the horse together until the glue set. When they finally let go, the leg was attached, a thin, white seam the only evidence of the break. It would never be perfect again.
Abel picked it up carefully, cradling it in his palm. He looked at it for a long time.
"It’s okay," he said, to the horse or to himself. "It’s okay now."
He looked at Orion. "Are you okay?"
Orion let out a breath that was half a sob, half a laugh. He was covered in wine, his family had publicly disowned him, his husband had just been dragged from a state dinner by twelve guards, and his reputation was in tatters.
He looked at Abel’s worried, earnest face.
"No," Orion said honestly, his voice cracking. "I’m not okay."
Abel’s face fell.
"But," Orion continued, wiping his eyes again, "I will be. We will be."
He wasn’t sure if he believed it. But he had to say it.
Abel set the mended horse gently on the hearthstone. Then, moving with infinite care, as if Orion were made of the same fragile porcelain, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him.
It was a clumsy, desperate hug. Abel buried his face in Orion’s shoulder.
"I’m sorry," he whispered again, a mantra against Orion’s skin. "I’m sorry. I’ll be better. I’ll be good."
Orion didn’t cry anymore. He just closed his eyes, leaning into the solid, warm weight of his husband, and held on.
In the dim light of the dying fire, the mended horse stood watch over them, a silent witness to the broken pieces they were trying, together, to glue back together.