Orion ran.
His feet slapped against the cold flagstones, the sound echoing wildly in the cavernous hallway. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps that burned his throat. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he had to get away. Away from the laughter. Away from the table. Away from the pity and the scorn and the beautiful, terrible man who had made it all worse by trying to make it better.
The humiliation was a physical thing. It clawed at his insides, hot and sharp. It squeezed his lungs tight. He had endured many things in his life—neglect, dismissal, being treated as an afterthought. But this? This public dissection of his most private needs, this mockery of the bond that was supposed to be his shelter... even for him, it was too much.
Tears blurred his vision. He swiped at them angrily with the back of his hand, but more followed. He stumbled around a corner, his shoulder scraping against stone.
Behind him, he heard a voice.
"Orion!"
It was Abel. Shouting. The sound was distant, confused, chasing him down the hall.
Orion ran faster. His robe, the simple charcoal grey one, streamed behind him like a shadow. He took a wrong turn, found himself in a narrower corridor lined with empty suits of armor. Their hollow eyes seemed to watch his frantic escape.
"ORION!"
Closer now. Heavy, pounding footsteps joined the voice. Abel was running after him.
Orion’s chest ached. He pushed through a small, unmarked door, finding himself back in the residential wing. He recognized the tapestry near their chamber. With a final burst of desperate energy, he sprinted the last few yards, threw his weight against the heavy wooden door of the wedding chamber, and stumbled inside.
He slammed the door shut behind him. The sound was a thunderclap in the quiet room.
He didn’t lock it. He didn’t have the strength.
He collapsed forward onto the edge of the enormous bed, his body folding in on itself. A sob tore its way out of his throat, harsh and ugly. Then another. He pressed his face into the silken coverlet, his shoulders shaking. He cried not with gentle tears, but with wrenching, silent heaves that felt like they were tearing him apart. All the cold composure, all the quiet acceptance, shattered into a thousand sharp pieces inside him.
Wooden toys.
Abel’s proud, innocent declaration played on a loop in his mind, underscored by Ashford’s cruel laughter. The servants’ snickers. The Duke’s resigned disappointment. The Duchess’s futile scolding.
He was a joke. His marriage was a joke. His life was a joke.
"Orion? Orion, open the door!"
Abel’s voice was muffled by the thick wood, but Orion could hear the panic in it. High, strained.
Orion couldn’t answer. He could only sob, his fingers twisting in the bedding.
The door handle rattled. Then, slowly, the door swung inward.
Abel stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the hall. He was breathing hard from the run, his chest heaving. His golden hair was disheveled. His eyes were wide, wild with confusion and fear. He scanned the dim room and found Orion curled on the bed.
"Husband?" Abel’s voice was small now, tentative. He took a step inside, letting the door close softly behind him. "What’s wrong?"
Orion didn’t look up. He kept his face buried.
Abel took another hesitant step toward the bed. He stared at Orion’s shaking form. His own hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. "Did I... did I do something wrong?"
The question was so genuinely bewildered it made Orion cry harder, a fresh wave of hopeless sobs shaking him.
Abel flinched. He looked utterly lost. He had never seen someone break like this. He didn’t understand the cause, but he felt the effect like a physical blow.
Very carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, Abel moved to the side of the bed. He reached out a large, trembling hand. He meant to touch Orion’s shoulder, to offer comfort.
His fingertips were an inch away when he stopped. He pulled his hand back, curling it into a fist against his chest. He was afraid to touch him. Afraid he would make it worse.
Instead, Abel sank to his knees beside the bed. The hard floor was unforgiving, but he didn’t seem to feel it. He knelt there, his face level with the mattress where Orion lay.
"Orion," he whispered, his voice thick. "Please. Tell me. What was wrong?" He searched Orion’s hidden face, his own expression one of agonized confusion. "At the table... I said we played. Was that bad? Was playing bad?"
Orion shook his head weakly against the covers, but no words came.
Abel’s eyes filled with a sheen of tears. His lower lip trembled. "I’m sorry," he breathed, the words choked. "I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again. Whatever it was. I won’t say it again. I won’t play with the toys if it makes you sad. I’ll... I’ll throw them away."
He was babbling now, desperate, offering up anything he could think of to fix the unfixable hurt before him.
"Just please don’t cry," Abel pleaded, his own voice breaking. A single tear traced a path down his cheek. "Please, Orion. Your crying... it hurts here." He pressed a fist against his own sternum, over his heart.
Orion finally dragged in a shuddering, wet breath. He forced himself to lift his head. His face was blotchy, his eyes swollen and red. He looked at Abel kneeling on the floor, this powerful Alpha brought low by grief he didn’t comprehend.
Seeing Abel’s tear-streaked face, his complete and total devastation, snapped something inside Orion. The hysterical edge of his own panic dulled, replaced by a weary, aching sorrow.
Abel blinked, his wet lashes clumping together. "It’s not?"
"No."
"Then... what?"
Orion pushed himself up slowly, wiping his face with his sleeve. He felt hollowed out. "What your brother said. About you. About me. About... satisfaction." The word tasted bitter. "He was mocking us. He was laughing at you. At me. At this." He gestured weakly between them.
Abel’s brow furrowed. He processed this slowly. "Ashford was being mean."
"Yes."
"And... my saying we played... that made him meaner?"
Orion nodded, fresh tears welling. "He used it to hurt us more."
Understanding dawned on Abel’s face. Not the complex social nuance, but the core truth: his attempt to defend had been turned into a weapon. His actions had caused Orion pain.
Abel’s face crumpled. Fresh guilt washed over him. He bowed his head, his forehead almost touching the mattress. "I’m sorry," he whispered again, his voice muffled. "I was trying to help. I thought if I said I could take care of you, they would stop. I didn’t know... I didn’t know it would make them laugh at you."
He looked up, his golden eyes swimming with misery. "I’m stupid. I’m sorry."
Orion’s heart cracked open. He reached out, his hand trembling. He didn’t touch Abel. He just let his fingertips rest on the bedspread near Abel’s bowed head.
"You’re not stupid," Orion said, his voice raw but firm. "You’re not. They are cruel. That’s different."
Abel lifted his gaze. The hope in it was fragile, heartbreaking. "You’re not... mad at me?"
Orion looked at him—this man who had run after him, who was kneeling on stone floors for him, who was crying because he was crying.
"No," Orion whispered. "I’m not mad at you."
A shaky breath escaped Abel. He didn’t move from his knees. He just stayed there, looking up at Orion, the storm of panic slowly receding from his eyes, leaving behind a deep, weary sadness and a new, dawning understanding: the world outside their room was full of landmines he couldn’t always see, and his husband could get hurt by them.