CEDRIC POV
Five years later
Bloody hell!
I gripped the wretched mantel in Lady Digby's overly grand receiving room as a jolt of pain shot through my leg, making me suck in a sharp breath. The eyes of the guests were on me, watchful and probing, tracing every movement, every twitch of pain I couldn't mask.
They were searching for any sign of weakness, something they could seize upon, dissect, and savor over their afternoon tea.
Gossiping lot they were.
A group of young Omegas, draped in delicate lace and silk, drifted past me, their light, airy giggles cutting through the room's thick, suffocating air. Their scents—jasmine, rose, and a hint of lavender—hung heavily in the air, mingling with the faint musk of sweat and the lingering smoke of cigars from nearby young Alphas.
I turned away, a sigh slipping from my lips—Was it resignation, frustration, or perhaps a trace of bitterness?
Gareth, my insufferably eager younger brother, thrived in this world of hollow flattery and shallow praise.
I once did, too, but now...
The muscles in my face felt stiff and strained as if frozen in place by years of disuse. I tried to pull my lips into something resembling a smile, but it was a hollow, half-hearted effort.
It was as if my body had forgotten how to participate in this charade of pleasantries.
Eamon stood beside me, my friend since those reckless days of pranks and mischief at Kingsfurd.
"Handsome," they called us, each for different reasons. With his tall stature, dark hair, and fair skin, Eamon never failed to draw attention.
His lopsided grin made the ladies swoon, their eyes skipping past his crooked nose to his piercing blue gaze, promising excitement and romance.
Eamon was, without question, a ladies' man.
Mothers fretted endlessly over his reputation, whispering warnings to their daughters, while fathers eyed him with suspicion, always questioning his intentions.
Yet the daughters, oh, they paid little mind to such prudent warnings or concerned looks. They flocked to him with eager hearts, vying for his attention as moths drawn to a flame.
In stark contrast, I could send those very same ladies fleeing with nothing more than a single cold glance. At six foot five, with a more robust and muscular frame, my mere presence was often enough to intimidate.
My dark golden hair, worn longer than current fashion dictates, framed a face that might have been carved from marble—high, chiseled cheekbones, a classical nose, and a perfectly formed mouth.
But all these features were eclipsed by the cold cynicism that lingered in my brown eyes.
And then there was the scar—a jagged line cutting through my brow.
It gave me a roguish look, or so I'd been told.
A look that suggested danger, not romance.
The ladies would glance my way once before quickly turning their attention elsewhere, drawn more to Eamon's easy charm than to the harsh reality I presented.
"The rake and the pirate," the gossips dubbed us.
But I didn't care.
Caring required energy I no longer possessed.
A servant appeared at my side, his steps so quiet on the plush carpet that I barely noticed him until he spoke. 'My lord? Here is the brandy you requested.'
He bowed, a silver tray balanced in his hands, two goblets perched on top. The brandy inside glistened a rich amber hue that whispered of temporary relief.
I handed one to Eamon, his effortless smile contrasting with the weariness etched into my own face.
Lifting the goblet, I drank deeply. The brandy burned its way down my throat, warmth spreading slowly, momentarily dulling the persistent ache in my leg.
Eamon's eyes flicked to my leg, his brow furrowing ever so slightly.
"Leg acting up again? Or just aiming to drown yourself tonight?" A smirk played on his lips, but his eyes betrayed him—darkened with a hint of worry.
"I never get drunk."
"Try telling that to someone who doesn't know you," Eamon said, leaning in just enough for his voice to drop to a conspiratorial whisper. "Remember that night after the end-of-term exams?" He paused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You got into the brandy... Stumbling around, shouting your triumphs like some victorious general. Drunk as a lord, you were, slurring every word and challenging everyone to a fencing match in the library."
I tensed at the mere mention of it, the memory surging back with startling clarity as though no time had passed at all. Kingsfurd, that esteemed all-boys boarding school where we had spent our formative years.
That night had been especially unruly, the atmosphere thick with the mingled scents of excitement and rising tempers, a volatile combination that only such a gathering of young Alphas could produce.
Yet it had ended poorly for me—so poorly, in fact, that I could scarcely recall the faces of the omegas who had shared my bed that night. The memory was a blur, clouded by the haze of alcohol and the relentless intensity of my rut.
It had taken me by surprise, crashing over me with a force that left me raw and unguarded, my body driven by instinct more than thought. I remember the feverish heat, the pounding pulse that drowned out reason, and the desperate, clawing need that seized hold of me, blurring the line between pleasure and pain.
I'd awoken alone, drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted and damp, with only the lingering ache of emptiness and the shame of my own loss of control as company.
"Consider yourself fortunate, Cedric," Eamon's voice cut through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. "You'll be laid up for at least six months—thank heavens for that. Scarlett would have you thrust back into danger tomorrow if she had her way."
Fortunate.
The word left a bitter taste.
Eamon leaned in, his voice a soft murmur barely audible over the din of the room. His eyes darted around, scanning for eavesdroppers, his posture shifting to shield our conversation from prying ears. "Let another shoulder her dirty work next time. The King has no shortage of willing dogs eager to leap into the flames at his command."
"I've quit, Eamon," I cut in, firm.
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