•|5

Ryder's POV

I woke up with a headache.

A sharp, pulsing one.

And it only got worse when I realized the boy wasn’t beside me anymore.

For a second, panic flickered through me—then clarity hit. Of course he’s not here. He’s a worker. Workers wake up early to do their chores.

I sat up with a grunt, only to be met by a stabbing pain near my side.

“Fùck…” I hissed through gritted teeth, glancing down. Blood was already seeping through the bandage, staining it red again. Fùcking heal fast, goddammit!

I stayed seated, clutching my side, breath uneven. My thoughts wandered—dark and fast. Had my men searched for me? I’d been missing for a while now, surely they noticed. They weren’t just soldiers. They were mine. Loyal only to me, sworn to follow me to the grave.

So where the fùck were they?

I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the headache. It throbbed worse than before. I had no clue where I got it from. My memories before passing out were still a haze. I was about to curse again when I noticed something—something that made me pause.

A plate of food beside the bed.

And beside it, a small piece of paper folded neatly.

That caught my attention more than anything else.

I reached for the note, unfolding it slowly.

“Good morning. Eat the plate of breakfast beside you. I will not be around for some time, but I’ll probably come back at lunch. –Clyde.”

I stared at it.

And smiled.

For the second time since I got here, that boy made me smile. He even left a ‘good morning.’ Fùck, it was adorable.

Wait.

What the fùck am I thinking?

Adorable?

Seriously?

I shook my head, scowling at myself. We’re both guys. We both have dìcks. Why the hell am I calling another guy adorable?

Still… I picked up the plate and started eating. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was good. I wondered if he cooked it himself. The food felt warm in my stomach, like the note had warmed something else inside me—something I couldn’t name.

As I chewed, my eyes wandered across the room for the first time. I hadn’t really taken it in last night. It was decent in size, but cluttered. Old furniture stacked against the walls, dust floating in the air like forgotten memories. This must be some kind of storage room.

I slowly stood up, wincing again at the pain. Fùck, that hurts. But standing was manageable. Walking, surprisingly, was easier. I limped across the room, just looking.

Then I saw it.

A photograph.

A family portrait, framed and tucked behind a pile of unused blankets. I stepped closer, peering into the faces in the image.

The Duke.

His wife.

Their son.

Fùcking great. I was inside the Duke’s mansion.

I didn’t know him personally, but I knew enough. Enough to be certain he knew me. I wasn’t just anyone—I was part of the royal bloodline.

If they find me here…

The sound of the door creaking open snapped me from my thoughts. My head turned sharply.

A maid stepped in, holding a tray.

She hadn’t seen me. The shadows shielded me, and she didn’t expect anyone else to be here. She walked forward, heading toward the corner of the room where some old tools were stacked.

And then she saw me.

The tray slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.

Her eyes widened—pure shock.

In that moment, my mind spiraled. I saw it all before it could happen.

She would run.

She’d tell the others.

They’d blame Clyde.

My chest tightened as rage flared through me. They’ll hurt him for this. Punish him for hiding me. All because of her.

Before she could bolt, I lunged forward and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back. She screamed, but I was already slamming her into the wall.

I gripped her throat tightly.

Tears streamed from her eyes as she clawed at my hand, kicking, gasping for air. My fingers dug deeper into her skin. My rage burned brighter. I thought of Clyde—fragile, bruised, mistreated—and it only made me squeeze harder.

She punched at my arm weakly.

Then slower.

Then nothing.

Her body went limp in my grasp, and I stared at her face—red, swollen, lifeless.

I dropped her like garbage, letting her body crumple into a heap on the floor.

My heart pounded.

My chest rose and fell, blood pumping in my ears. But I felt...

Relieved.

Calm.

She would never speak.

Clyde would be safe.

I sat back down on the edge of the bed, letting my body rest. The pain from my wound throbbed, but it was a distant ache now. My thoughts drifted, always back to the boy.

I knew he was suffering here. That he was being hurt. And I knew—deep in my chest, deeper than I wanted to admit—that I wanted to protect him.

The maid’s death proved it.

I didn’t even hesitate.

I’d do it again.

Because... I liked him.

Fùck.

•

Three hours passed.

Clyde hadn’t come back.

I stared at the floor, growing more anxious with every passing second. Where is he? I thought. Was he okay? Were they making him work nonstop again? Or—

My head snapped up at the sound of footsteps outside the door.

I stood quickly, ignoring the pain, ready to kill again if I had to.

But it was him.

Clyde.

He walked in slowly, shoulders slumped, eyes dim. He looked... drained. Hollowed out. I watched him silently as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him without a word. Then he looked up—and saw me.

And just like that, his face changed.

He smiled.

It was small, tired, but it hit me like a knife to the heart.

He walked toward me, his eyes softening. But then his gaze dropped to my waist—and the blood on my bandage.

I cursed inwardly. Fùck. Forgot about that.

His expression shifted into worry. He reached out to touch the bandage, but I caught his hand gently before he could.

“You look tired,” I said quietly, locking eyes with him.

He gave me a soft smile, as if trying to convince me he was okay.

I didn’t believe him.

“Were they being hard on you?” I asked, my voice low—dangerous now, thinking about those bastards treating him like trash. My jaw clenched.

He shook his head, still smiling, still trying to play it down.

God, he’s so pure. Too good for this place. Too good for me.

He moved to sit on the bed beside me.

And that’s when he saw her.

The maid’s body.

His gasp broke the silence. He froze, eyes wide in horror. I cursed under my breath, guilt slicing through me like a knife. Fùck, I forgot—

He stumbled back, panic overtaking his face.

“Clyde—” I stepped forward.

He shoved me away.

His eyes were wild now, brimming with terror. He stared at the corpse, trembling, breath shaky. Then he looked at me. And that broke something in me.

He was afraid.

Of me.

Tears filled his eyes, fat droplets slipping down his cheeks.

“Clyde, no—”

He pulled away from my grasp, sobbing.

But he didn’t run.

He didn’t leave.

He curled into a dark corner, hugging his knees, shaking like a leaf.

I followed him slowly.

My chest felt tight.

He was crying—really crying—and I couldn’t take it. I knelt beside him, watching helplessly as he struggled to speak through hiccups and gasps.

“W-why... why is t-there—”

His words dissolved into sobs. I didn’t wait.

I pulled him into my arms, wrapping him gently in my embrace.

“Ssshhh... Don’t cry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry...” I whispered over and over, stroking his back in slow, soothing circles.

I never said sorry.

Never.

It was never in my vocabulary—not for the people I hurt, not for the blood on my hands.

But for him?

I’d say it again.

I buried my face in his hair, feeling the warmth of his tears against my chest. His sobs slowly quieted, but he didn’t pull away. He clung to me like he didn’t know where else to go.

And maybe...

Maybe I didn’t either.

I held him tighter.

Afraid.

Afraid that the fear in his eyes would never leave. That this moment would change the way he saw me forever. That he would drift away—cold, distant, out of reach.

But I couldn’t let that happen.

Not now.

Not after I realized how I felt.

I wasn’t just protecting him.

I loved him.

And I’d kill anyone who tried to take him away from me.

To be continued.

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