3. Can't escape

3. Can't escape

"He was still our mother! He may have been your enemy, but to me he was the only mother I ever had!"

Blue eyes just like the man's own blazed with fury, glaring at him in bitter reproach. The man could not understand why his beloved son was angry with him. All he had done was try — for the sake of their mother.

"I loved your mother. I could not forgive the person who made him die so wretchedly."

"Our mother is that person — the one who died at your hands! Please! Stop lying about what's true!"

"Your mother is Rapiel Westport! You were named after him because you looked like him!"

"……I don't need this name. I'm not Rapiel anymore. If you'd named me after Mother, you should have called me ……"

The aged man raised his hand in rage, and the grown son stared him down without flinching. The hand, suspended in midair, could not come down. Tears streamed from the son's eyes, brimming with resentment.

"I will never set foot in this house again."

"What are you saying."

"I am saying that I cannot live in the place where my mother died in misery."

With those words, the son walked out. The man watched him go, then chased after him.

"Rapiel!"

At the front door, the son looked back at his father standing halfway up the staircase. Between them, an aged maidservant stood ashen-faced, dabbing ceaselessly at her tears, pleading — "Young master, please." The son regarded her with a cold stare, then turned back to the man.

"Goodbye, Viscount Kloff Bendyke."

"Rapiel!"

The son left. And never returned.

The man who had lost his eldest ran to the gravestone and hurled curses at it, over and over. He wept and raged, damning the one who tormented him even in death. When at last he fetched a hammer to smash the stone, the second son who came running to stop the madman was struck by the hammer and badly injured.

That was his second episode of psychosis.

* * *

"……Why is Rapiel my son. And smashing a headstone with a hammer — what kind of deranged dream……"

Another savage night's sleep, and irritation was the first thing that greeted him upon waking. He got out of bed, steadied his dizzy head, and rubbed his eyes with his palm. He padded barefoot to the nearest window and pulled back the heavy blackout curtain.

"Spectacularly lovely weather. Just perfect."

The sky was a sullen grey, rumbling with a distant boom as though hail and gale-force winds might descend at any moment. Was it some kind of omen? Filthy dream, filthy weather. This was all that damned count's fault. Today was the day he was to visit the count's estate. Could there be a more fitting start?

Kloff shook off the irritation and the nonsensical dream, and flung off his nightclothes. He dawdled through a breakfast he had no appetite for, dragged his reluctant feet to the carriage he'd barely managed to summon, and the instant he climbed aboard, the promised hail arrived — thin, mean little pellets. The roads turned to mud almost at once. He was fussing over the carriage wheels sinking into the pitted surface when the hail faded into a dreary, charmless drizzle.

"Just about sums up my life."

He sighed and looked out the carriage window. Beneath the grey sky, the manor loomed in all its imposing grandeur.

The person who received him was a butler every bit as haughty as his master. They had met before, and the greeting — "Welcome, Mr. Bendyke" — came first, but the butler's manner was, to put it kindly, flawlessly courteous, and to put it honestly, cold beyond description.

It's not as though I came to this miserable house because I wanted to, butler.

Kloff said nothing, submitted to the impeccable service, and handed over his light raincoat, slightly damp. The butler took it by the tips of his fingers as though handling a soiled rag and passed it to a waiting footman, then turned wordlessly and led the way. He walked with his shoulders thrown back and his head held so rigidly upright it looked as though a steel brace had been fitted to his neck. Master and servant alike. Was there some special compound mixed into the air of this manor that stiffened one's joints?

Down a corridor so long it was hard to imagine anyone actually lived here, the butler led him to the library — the same room as before. Kloff stepped through the held door, and the count, seated on a sofa with tea, looked up and smiled.

"You're earlier than I expected."

"……You sent the carriage, and earlier than expected is the best you can manage?"

Kloff made his displeasure plain before so much as a greeting, but Aeroc offered no retort — only smiled and gestured to a seat.

"Tea?"

While Kloff settled himself, Aeroc — without calling the butler — poured tea from a set already prepared on the side table into a spare cup, added one spoonful of sugar with a silver spoon, and stirred. At first, Kloff assumed it was the count's own slightly unusual preference — sugar rather than cream — but the cup was pushed toward him. The count's own tea, already sitting before him, had cream.

"How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"My tea preference. It's not exactly common in the city."

"……I believe I saw you drinking it before. It's uncommon enough to have stuck in my memory."

At the tea party, perhaps. Aristocrats had limitless meddlesomeness and a matching fondness for remembering useless details. Even the pinnacle of the aristocracy was no exception, it seemed. The tea was brewed strong — slightly bitter on the finish — and it jolted his still-sluggish brain awake. It was exactly to his taste.

"How is it?"

"Not bad."

The count smiled with satisfaction and sipped his pale milk tea. It was closer to gold than to the color of brewed black tea. Drinks that sort of thing — no wonder his skin is that white. Milk-tea-blond hair, milk-white skin. Lips with a strange rosy tint, like the rose pattern on the teacup. And as for the scent — rather than being submerged in thick, costly tea fragrance, which would have suited his appearance and bearing, the count always wore a light, cool cologne.

It was an odd choice. On the surface, he seemed like someone who would prefer drowning in expensive tea-scented perfume, but instead he wore the kind of cologne favored by casual, philandering alphas. An alpha's cologne was the sort of thing one used when one wanted to mask the lingering scent of last night's omega bed partner.

While some of us are having nightmares, someone else had a positively enchanting evening.

Irritation surged again. His teacup rattled, and those lush lashes, which had been elegantly lowered, swept upward — blue eyes fixed on him. And again — smiling. Why does he keep smiling? Kloff set his half-finished tea on the table and spoke, his voice a fraction stiff.

"Ledgers. Investment contracts. Property documents. All documentation relating to liquid assets held."

"……What?"

"Bring them. Now. We have work to do."

"Already? I haven't even finished my tea."

Aeroc set down his cup, faintly startled. Kloff was already on his feet, heading for the desk. He pulled out the chair and hung his jacket over its back.

"I didn't come here to sit around drinking tea. I'm busy. I carved this time out by force."

"I thought you'd set aside the whole day. Viscount Derbyshire said you usually spend at least a day in conversation with your other clients before——"

"I have an appointment this afternoon. Don't forget that you're the one who showed up out of nowhere."

Kloff drew the line firmly, and Aeroc acquiesced without argument. He rose and — in the most refined possible manner — picked up a small bell from beside him and rang it. The butler appeared at once, and through him, a mountain of documents began arriving in the library — as expected, or rather, far exceeding expectations. The ancient pedigree of the house, the staggering fortune, and the profligate mismanagement of both were made palpable in paper and ink. Kloff stared at the heaps of documents, most of which were not even properly organized, and could not contain his horror.

"Damn it. You could have organized this beforehand."

"I was told it's better to show everything as-is, without touching it."

"That applies to organized ledgers! Where are the receipts in all this?"

His scowl deepened as he pressed the point, and the count's response was a marvel.

"Is one supposed to collect receipts?"

"……"

Kloff stared at him in silence. The count glanced away for a moment, then met his eyes and smiled. Go ahead, smile. At least you won't get sworn at while you're smiling. No — actually, smiling made him want to swear more. He couldn't decide. Kloff looked at the dust-covered ledger, heaved a deep sigh, and unfastened his cuffs to roll up his sleeves.

"I won't be seeing Rapiel today, then."

"Ah."

He had only been muttering to himself as he dug through the piles and fished out something that at least resembled a ledger, but the count suddenly grew agitated, his expression turning serious.

"I'm sorry. I didn't consider your circumstances at all. You're welcome to come another time. Or I could organize these documents first and send them to you."

"Forget it. I'm already here. And judging by the fact that you've clearly never done this before, you'd only make things worse."

"I really am sorry. Your time with someone you love——"

Something about the trailing end of that sentence was off. Kloff frowned and stared at Aeroc. The count did seem genuinely remorseful — even behind the smile, there was a faint cast of real distress, and his gaze had dropped.

"If you've got time to worry about other people's personal lives, hand me that file over there."

"Ah."

Aeroc spotted the file Kloff was pointing to and scrambled to pick it up. Meanwhile, Kloff settled into the fine leather chair behind the desk, his expression pinched. The chair — which fit him as though he'd used it for twenty years — was surprisingly comfortable, but he betrayed nothing, keeping his face rigid as he opened the ledger.

It took an enormous amount of time, as expected. The third pot of tea had gone cold ages ago. Aeroc, who had been sitting on the sofa surrounded by books he'd pulled from the shelves, flipping pages and watching Kloff intermittently, suddenly stood and headed for the door.

Bored of waiting, gone to do something else? While I'm still working here.

The distraction had been making it hard to concentrate anyway — perhaps it was for the best. But a short while later the library door opened again, and Aeroc came in carrying a tray. Kloff glanced up from the ledgers and notes. The count stood beside the desk holding a modest silver tray. On it, by the look of things, were sandwiches and biscuits.

"Ideally I'd offer you a proper meal, but——"

"No, thank you."

"I expected you'd say that, so I brought snacks instead."

"Put them there."

He pointed at the top of a stack of files without looking up. Even after setting the tray down, Aeroc lingered at his side for no apparent reason. The cologne was extremely distracting. Kloff scowled and turned to look at the man hovering behind him with his hands clasped at his back.

"Oh — I'm sorry if I was in the way."

"Go sit over there. Read a book or something. Or leave."

"I'll do that."

The meek compliance made Kloff stare openly at the retreating figure. Has the count eaten something disagreeable? Why was he suddenly so docile? Surely he wasn't being obsequious to curry favor. Was he ill? Then the tray caught Kloff's eye. Appetizing-looking ham sandwiches, and biscuits studded with dark dried fruit. Perhaps he's just hungry. Aristocrats don't eat in front of others by themselves.

"If you're hungry, go ahead and eat first. Don't mind me."

"I'm not. Those are for you. I don't eat anything with raisins."

"A grown man being fussy about food. That would be unthinkable in my family."

Kloff gave him a mild ribbing about the childish behavior, and the count shot him a sharp look — then, the instant their eyes met, whipped his gaze away as though offended. The smooth smile returned immediately: "You don't have time to worry about other people's dietary habits. And I'm not a member of your household." The rebuke was crisp and precise.

There we go. That's more like the count.

"I'm deeply grateful for your concern. Now, if the person responsible for this disaster could kindly shut up and stop being a distraction, I could finish faster."

He answered with a brazen grin, and the count glared at him again. They stared each other down, then both turned away at the same moment.

In the library, the only sounds were the neurotic scratching of a pen and the aggressive turning of pages.

"It's a mess."

By late afternoon, Kloff had finally managed to sort through the major ledgers and the largest investment holdings. That single word was the professional assessment he arrived at. Aeroc, mid-sip, looked up with startled eyes. "How bad?"

"If you keep spending at this rate, in a few years you'll have to find employment somewhere. Assuming you don't end up buried in debt first."

"That bad?"

A slight pallor confirmed what Kloff already knew — still an aristocrat at heart. It wasn't unique to Aeroc; most clients who'd suffered significant losses reacted the same way when given the news. One particularly fragile omega nobleman had even wept. For the aristocracy, the notion of being employed — of working for money — carried roughly the same shock as the idea of selling one's body did for a commoner.

Every time he saw that reaction, Kloff privately wondered whether his clients saw him as some kind of high-class gigolo or pimp. He never let it show — he simply watched, coolly. Of all the reactions he'd witnessed, Aeroc's was remarkably composed and restrained. The count offered a smile tinged with something that might have been worry.

Smiling even now. Should I push harder?

"Your assets are substantial enough that you won't go bankrupt tomorrow. But the way you've been hemorrhaging money on failed investments while maintaining spending on tea parties and the like — if someone decided to come after you in earnest, you could be ruined completely."

A crease appeared between the count's smooth brows, and the upward curve of his lips shifted, almost imperceptibly, downward.

"If this kind of reckless investing continues — not even a massive organization, just a handful of clever individual investors pooling their resources — they could run a proper con and ensure that Teiwind exists only in history books."

The count looked at him suddenly. And asked, with a note of anger:

"Someone such as yourself, for instance?"

Kloff snorted. Then pulled out something from the sorted files that he'd been wanting to ask about.

"Naturally. I'm the best in the business, as I keep telling you. Now — what exactly is the 'National Hunger Alliance'? Why did you build them a house? And the 'Motherless Angels' — what's that? You've been making enormous regular donations."

"Those are charities, obviously! As a nobleman, I have a moral obligation to help those in need with what I have!"

"Of course charitable giving is a form of social responsibility that the upper classes can and should engage in. But neither of these organizations has a listed address or a named administrator. The receipts aren't proper documents with valid signatures — they're so shoddy I can spot spelling and grammar errors at a glance. And above all — why have I never heard of them? I know every civic, royal, and internationally recognized charitable organization there is, and I have never once come across these. Where did you find them?"

"At a charity gala."

When Kloff pressed with a sharp gaze, the count, who had been glowering back just a moment before, looked away as he answered. Kloff waved one of the flimsy, crudely printed receipts — produced by the con artists on cheap paper — and smiled.

"Don't lie. Tell me the truth. Where?"

"……On the street."

Unbelievable. What could possibly have possessed him to hand over a fortune to complete strangers he'd met on the street, on the basis of nothing? If he had that much money to throw around, he could have given it to a poor top graduate instead. Help a man move into a better house. Kloff was speechless for a moment, then continued.

"All transfers to those two organizations are hereby suspended. This is obviously fraud."

"Says the man who's committed fraud himself."

"What did you just say?"

"I said nothing."

I heard every word. Fraud — him? But the scolding wasn't finished yet, so he'd let it go for now.

He flicked a glance at the man who still didn't grasp the severity of his own situation, then pulled out the next item.

"And whose brilliant idea was this investment? A gemstone mine. That deposit has been dry for years — anyone with half an ear to the ground knows it. All those tea parties and social gatherings, and you couldn't manage a single connection who'd tell you the truth?"

The count stared at him at that. Then smiled — a strange, indecipherable smile.

"……I know now. That it was a swindle. It's just that…… a longtime friend of my late father recommended the investment. I trusted him."

"But not a friend of yours."

At the offhand remark, something flickered in the count's blue eyes — though it stilled again so quickly that Kloff wondered if he'd imagined it.

As Kloff continued to itemize the problems one by one, the count's pride appeared to take the beating poorly. His brow furrowed deeply and he crossed his arms. For an aristocrat to fold his arms — creasing his clothes — signaled genuine displeasure. But the look was less angry than sulking, and Kloff had to fight to suppress the laughter bubbling up.

After the long ordeal, the conclusion Kloff reached was this: Aeroc Teiwind must never, under any circumstances, be entrusted with a checkbook. Originally, he had planned to do the bare minimum — make a show of effort for Derbyshire's sake, since the man had done him too many favors to refuse — and leave. He had intended to avoid a contract altogether, perhaps refer Aeroc to another asset manager or investment agent. But as it turned out, the count had no concept whatsoever of financial management — and what was worse, appeared to have no grasp of the very idea of monetary value.

A textbook case of a person who had lived so long above the clouds that he had forgotten how to walk. And that person was currently sitting before Kloff, wearing an expression full of grievance and glaring at him. The one who should be angry is me — the one who now knows far more about this hopeless man's problems than he ever wanted to.

"So what do you intend to do?"

"That's my question, Count Teiwind."

"You're my investment agent, so you should be the one explaining it to me."

The nerve.

"Who says I'm your investment agent? I never signed a contract."

"But…… that's……"

At the cold-blooded observation, Aeroc looked as though he'd been betrayed. The disbelief was written across his face; his slightly parted lips trembled, and his fingers fidgeted. The golden-haired count — too refined even to point a finger — bit his lip.

Strictly speaking, there was no need to take the contract. But there was no pressing need to refuse it, either. Things were tight, admittedly, but given the weight of the Teiwind name and the sheer scale of the fortune, anyone else would have been desperate to sign. Viscount Derbyshire's assurance that it would be good for Kloff was not wrong.

But Aeroc made him uncomfortable on a personal level, and he had planned to avoid entanglement — so watching the man sit there like a rain-soaked puppy, unable to utter a single word of protest, only made things worse. Kloff sighed deeply.

"I'll draw up a contract. We can work out a plan going forward and discuss it from there."

"……You mean……"

"Hear my terms first. I have no intention of compromising, and if even one condition isn't met, the deal is off."

At that, the count — masking his relief behind a neutral expression — rose from his seat. He leaned over the desk, scanning the documents Kloff had spread out. Then, as though the sulking of a moment ago had never happened, he lifted his head, looked down at Kloff, and smiled.

"Where do I sign?"

"Were you listening to a single word I just said?"

Now that a contract had been agreed upon, the remaining documents all had to be reviewed. There might have been a proper asset manager somewhere, but the current one had proven worse than useless and had been summarily dismissed, leaving the position vacant. With no alternative, Kloff arranged to take on a significant portion of the movable and liquid assets — beyond the real estate and long-term investments that would remain locked — in trust for active investment. In short, he had seized control of the count's finances.

Normally, no aristocrat would extend this degree of trust. Even Viscount Derbyshire, who took investment advice enthusiastically, managed his actual assets himself. But Aeroc Teiwind had no interest in his fortune whatsoever.

Over the several days Kloff spent visiting the estate to review documents, he began to grasp why. The count regarded any direct discussion of money — any overt display of concern for it — as ungenteel. Is this man a living etiquette manual? Even a king would not be this fastidious.

It was only natural, then, that when Kloff returned a few days later with a thick contract, the count reached for his fine fountain pen without so much as glancing at the pages. Kloff seized the hand. Aeroc looked up, startled.

"What, exactly, about me gives you the confidence to sign before reading?"

"You'll have written it properly. You keep boasting about being the best in the business."

"That's my claim. You need to verify it yourself. Read it."

"Fine, so let go of my hand. It hurts."

He must have tightened his grip in the heat of the moment. He released the hand — a shade smaller and incomparably softer than his own — and the count muttered under his breath, "Nothing but brute strength." Kloff glared hard enough to bore holes, but the count had his head down, leafing through the contract, and didn't see. The pages rustled past at speed. Is he actually reading?

"Read aloud. So I can verify."

"I'm past the age of needing a tutor."

"Which is why I'm asking you to prove you're reading."

Kloff all but barked the demand, and Aeroc, irritated in his own right, began reading the contract aloud. Not loudly, but the library was empty save for the two of them, and every word carried clearly. For all his talk of cultivation, the count might have had elocution lessons — he read even the rigid, technical language of the contract as though reciting a romantic poem, the words flowing with an effortless grace.

Through the lengthy recitation, Kloff found himself drawn in as though listening to the exquisite melody of an aria. He had written the thing himself, yet the content failed to register at all. Teacup frozen midway between table and lips, he stared at the count — golden lashes slightly lowered, reading through the contract — and could not look away.

"Is the fee sufficient? It seems lower than my previous agent's."

Oh, for the love of—— He had been sinking into an aesthetically charged reverie — a personally rare experience — and that single remark had flung him bodily back to reality. Kloff nearly swore aloud. Half the fury was directed at the hopeless count; the other half at the swindling predecessor. Kloff's fee, commensurate with his reputation as the acknowledged best in the business, was of course top-tier. On top of that, given the sheer volume of headaches this particular contract entailed, he had charged triple his usual rate — and it was less than the previous agent's?

That thieving raccoon of a con artist. What was his name again — I wrote it down somewhere. If I ever cross paths with him, I'll make sure he never runs another swindle.

While Kloff indulged in imagining how to dispose of a bad actor muddying the waters, the count signed with a flowing hand. Kloff was still savoring the petty fantasy — a thin smile escaping unbidden alongside his tea — when Aeroc finished. As the cap was going back on the fountain pen, Kloff pushed the duplicate copies forward, tapping the signature lines with his finger.

"Two copies. Sign them both."

"Contracts are terribly tedious affairs."

The count — who had the gall to call three signatures tedious — completed them, then stood and walked out without so much as taking his copy, citing "urgent business."

By now too drained for either surprise or anger, Kloff gathered the copies himself, placed them in the desk drawer of the library, and locked it. He dropped the key onto the silver tray held out by the waiting butler.

"Where is Aeroc?"

"Count Teiwind is in the music hall. Shall I show you the way?"

The butler, who inserted an emphatic staccato into Count Teiwind that made the correction unmistakable, received a shake of the head.

"That won't be necessary."

Insufferably idle aristocrat.

The premonition that things were about to become very tiresome settled over him. His professional instinct — the same one that had earned him his reputation in record time — proved, as always, unerringly correct.

Barely a week had passed before Kloff was cursing the day he'd signed that contract and losing his mind.

What Kloff had required of Aeroc was nothing difficult. Truly, it was something any child could do: consult him before making any expenditure above a set amount. He had thought the threshold generous. And yet, multiple times a day, messages arrived at his office to torment him.

"The count wishes to ask whether he may purchase a newcomer's painting series."

"The count wishes to make a donation at the upcoming charity gala. The amount is approximately this much."

"The count wishes to acquire a rare first edition at auction. He asks whether you might attend on his behalf."

"The count, at the upcoming porcelain fair——"

"The count, for Her Grace the Duchess's birthday——"

"The count——"

Exactly one week. And the fifty-third visit to his office by the count's footman. In the gap between processing a receipt for the latest staggering sum Aeroc had spent, here came the man whose footsteps alone — audible from down the hall — were enough to set Kloff's temples throbbing. The instant the footman stepped through the door, Kloff nearly snapped his pen in two.

"What now? What has the count done this time!"

"Please read this, sir."

The footman, courteous as ever, presented an envelope of fine handmade paper, gave a polite nod, and departed before Kloff could react.

Until now there had been brief notes and messages, but never a formal letter. The envelope was crafted from expensive paper, and across the front, in a hand as handsome as its owner's face, was written: To Mr. Bendyke. Perhaps it contained something important. He opened the letter with a faintly quickened pulse — and in that instant, the pen in his hand breathed its last.

Dear Mr. Bendyke,

In this season of splendid new greenery, I extend my deepest gratitude for the considerable labors you undertake on behalf of our countship. Basking in comfort made possible by your sacrifice, I am stricken with profound sorrow that I cannot offer you so much as a fragrant cup of tea. And yet here I am, once again leaning upon your noble lifeblood — how can I show my face? Nevertheless, I humbly ask that you appreciate the position in which I find myself, unable to disregard the venerable traditions of our ancient house.

This coming early summer, the hosting of a soirée in the rose garden — our countship's pride — is both a duty to the artistic legacy inscribed in the blood of my forebears and a precious opportunity to bestow beautiful memories upon a great many people. I trust you will assuredly grant your consent.

My admiration for the passion you bring even to your busiest days of rest. May peace always be with you.

Count Teiwind, Aeroc

Setting aside the opening salvo, which read as though it had been composed specifically to provoke — the word that leapt from the page and seared itself into Kloff's darkening eyes was a great many people. What, by the count's standard, constituted a great many? Surely he wasn't proposing to build an opera house on the grounds. A chill of suspicion ran through him, and his hands shook.

Then a second page, which had been tucked behind the first, dropped to the floor. On it, Aeroc had listed estimated costs by category. Kloff's eyes raced through the figures. Without a word, he rose and shrugged on his coat. He crumpled the letter into his pocket and strode out of the office wearing an expression that his secretary did not dare address.

In the carriage hurtling toward the count's estate, he smoothed the crumpled paper and looked again. The costs were astronomical — enough to suggest the simultaneous engagement of a royal orchestra and a world-renowned maestro. The countship was currently under strict austerity: all unsound assets were to be liquidated, and until investment returns stabilized, extravagant spending was absolutely forbidden. He had impressed this upon Aeroc multiple times. This was not extravagance. This was mania.

He shouted at the driver of the already-racing carriage to go faster. When they arrived at the Teiwind drive at twice the usual speed, Kloff leapt from the carriage before it had fully stopped. The butler, who came rushing out at the sound, was met with a shout.

"Where is he!"

"What is the matter, sir?"

The butler pushed his monocle up and answered in a clipped tone. Kloff, a beat behind and all the angrier for it, thrust the cost estimate under the man's nose.

"Ah — the expenses for the upcoming soirée. Hm, it's rather more modest than usual."

"This is the reduced version? Unbelievable. Either way, it exceeds the ceiling I set by five times over. I need to see the count immediately. Otherwise, starting next month, your wages will be docked."

"My wages are paid by the count, not by you, Mr. Bendyke. But I will show you the way. The count instructed me to do so."

The strapping alpha before him looked ready to detonate, but the aging butler answered without so much as a blink, his composure immaculate. He gave a small nod, turned, and led the way — his back ramrod-straight, not a hair out of place. Kloff had expected to be taken to the library or a sitting room, but they were heading in an unfamiliar direction.

"Where are we going?"

"The music hall. The count is selecting the repertoire with the maestro and several distinguished performers. If I may be so bold — please do bear in mind the words maestro and distinguished performers."

Kloff understood perfectly well what the butler was emphasizing, but rather than answer, he only deepened his scowl at the word maestro.

The count's music hall was the size of a small theater. A crowd of musicians were tuning and running passages together; a discordant clamor of clashing instruments was audible from the entrance. In that din, a person could come and go without drawing notice. And the butler, having escorted Kloff to the music hall, had not announced his arrival. Retaliation, presumably, for the ignored question a moment ago. Stubborn old coot.

Among the instruments and musicians filling the hall, no one paid Kloff the slightest attention. Well — two clarinetists who appeared to be omegas did glance his way, but quickly dismissed him. Probably because he wasn't carrying an instrument.

At the center of the hall — adorned with murals so old their age was beyond guessing — Aeroc was standing in conversation with a middle-aged alpha who held a violin. He had not noticed Kloff.

All those times the count showed Kloff nothing but that stiff, artificial smile — and here he was with this alpha, laughing openly, audibly, with obvious pleasure. A twist of something sour went through Kloff's gut. Some of us abandoned our lovers on a day off to come running here for work.

"Aeroc, you really are a genius. This soirée is going to be magnificent."

"It's entirely thanks to you for agreeing to participate, maestro."

"Well, you invited me — how could I say no?"

The alpha even clapped Aeroc lightly on the shoulder.

For someone who normally fusses about cleanliness and brushes off so much as a fallen leaf——

Kloff grumbled inwardly, but something kept him from approaching. The count laughing like that — bright, unguarded — was unfamiliar, and at the same time, felt like something he shouldn't disturb. Kloff knew nothing about symphonic music beyond the fact that multiple instruments played at once; he was unmistakably an intruder here. He lingered a moment, then decided to wait outside the hall. But one of the clarinetists who had spotted him earlier chose that moment to intervene.

"Who might you be?"

The omega's voice carried — more than loud enough for Aeroc, who had been deep in conversation, to turn around. Every eye in the hall swung toward Kloff. With no other option, he nodded a greeting from where he stood.

The smile that had been on the count's face just a moment before vanished, replaced by the usual artificial version. It wasn't as though Kloff had barged in on purpose, but being treated like an intruder stung. He was already worked up over the budget, and his expression hardened further. The middle-aged alpha, who had also turned to look, flinched and stepped back from Aeroc.

Aeroc, that thin smile in place, excused himself from the maestro and walked over. His displeasure at being interrupted showed in a smile slightly tighter than usual.

In the suddenly quiet hall, every gaze followed the golden-haired alpha who moved as though treading on clouds. Enough people for a full orchestra and then some were watching — Kloff felt his skin prickle. But the man at the center of all that attention appeared utterly unfazed.

They could not argue here. Kloff walked out of the music hall without a word, and Aeroc followed. The moment they reached a small terrace not far from the hall, the count's stiff voice hit him from behind.

"Did you receive what I sent?"

"Why else would I be here."

The retort came out colder than even he thought warranted. He turned around. The blue eyes that met his were darker than usual, watching him intently. There was always something piercing in that gaze, but today it was sharper than ever. The summer-sky irises had an almost liquid sheen. On the breeze, the cologne was heavier than usual.

His already foul mood plummeted straight to the floor. There was no reason Aeroc shouldn't have a lover — yet the fact kept grating. The memory of that woman in the green dress surfaced, and his hands clenched involuntarily. To hide it, he clasped them behind his back and looked down at Aeroc with cold eyes.

"Do you remember what the last line of the contract says?"

"In the event of breach of the above terms, the contract shall be terminated with immediate effect."

He had only meant it as an opening — not a genuine test — and the instant, verbatim answer left him momentarily at a loss, his mouth working soundlessly before he recovered.

"I'm impressed you remember."

"A document that short — one reading and most of it stays. I'd appreciate it if you didn't treat everyone as though they were stupid just because you graduated top of the National Capital University."

A short document. The contract was seven pages of standard print, filled margin to margin. The claim that he'd memorized it after a single reading was absurd.

"Page two, first line."

"Obligations of the Investment Agent. Article one: the contractee's — wait. Are you testing me?"

"Correct."

Kloff nodded like a tutor checking homework, watching the count — who, in a rare display, showed his displeasure openly with a scowl. In truth, Kloff couldn't remember the exact first line of page two himself. But the count would never know that. Watching Aeroc bristle at the perceived insult, Kloff was privately stunned.

Surely he's not a genius. That book in the library — he looked like he was just browsing. There's no way he could read that fast……

Even as he doubted it, Kloff belatedly realized that Aeroc really had been reading that day. He hadn't been trying to look learned while conscious of Kloff's gaze — his mind was simply that quick, and he'd been speed-reading all along. What on earth is this man?

Since the maestro and performers had already been engaged, canceling the soirée at this point would not prevent the loss. The man was slow to move on everything except the things that made Kloff's life difficult.

"You do realize you exceeded the ceiling I set."

"I sent notice. A perfectly courteous formal letter."

"I said consult. I never said inform me after the fact!"

The frustration that had been building all week finally erupted. A week of being pestered to death, and on top of it this bombshell — followed by not even bothering to check whether he'd come, while flirting with some other alpha — it was unbearable. And if the man was as clever as he now appeared, how could he not have anticipated that the letter would send Kloff charging over? Kloff advanced on him with something close to a snarl, and Aeroc, startled, took two steps back. Before either of them realized it, the count was trapped between the closed glass doors of the terrace and Kloff. Up close, beneath the cool cologne, there was something faintly sweet.

"Fine — just back off."

The thin smile was still in place as Aeroc tried to slip sideways. Without thinking, Kloff seized his arm.

The blue eyes went wider than he had ever seen them. Shock and dismay — and then fear, seeping in. The corners of Aeroc's mouth, forced upward, trembled. In that instant, Kloff felt a stab in his chest. He knew he could look intimidating when angry. But he had not thought it would be enough to frighten this imperious count. The arm in his grip was shaking, finely.

"Let go."

"Ah — sorry."

The tremor in the voice snapped Kloff to his senses. He released the arm and stepped back. Aeroc pressed his other hand to the place where he'd been gripped and said quietly, "I'll consult you beforehand from now on." Then he moved several paces to the side. The intent to flee was unmistakable. Something in Kloff's chest went cold. He had only grabbed the man's arm — but Aeroc was reacting as though he'd been assaulted. It bothered him deeply. But here, with the man this shaken, pressing the point would be too much.

"I'm sorry, but I'd prefer if you left for today. I'm not feeling well."

"All right."

There was nothing visibly wrong with him, but the count had gone slightly pale and would not look at Kloff directly. The awkwardness left no room to argue. As Kloff opened the glass door to go back inside, Aeroc murmured — just loudly enough to be heard — "Uncultured miser with nothing but brute force."

Kloff turned to fire back — that was too much even for him — but Aeroc had already slipped through the door Kloff had opened. The rapid, clipped footsteps looked like nothing so much as a prey animal fleeing for its life from a predator, and Kloff could not bring himself to give chase.

After leaving the count's estate, his mood was a wreck for the rest of the afternoon. Irritation gnawed at him constantly, something felt lodged in his chest, and he could not focus. After committing several grammatical errors he would never normally make — and ruining important documents by pressing his nib to the paper and staring blankly until the ink spread — Kloff finally told his secretary he was leaving early.

The walk from the city to his house on the outskirts was considerable, but he decided to take it for a change of scenery. By carriage, the main road looped wide through residential streets and shop fronts, following the river. On foot, the detour was impractical; the shorter route cut through alleys and into a stretch of rougher slums. Everyone who learned he used that path frowned and urged him to take a carriage. Kloff paid them no mind.

He had grown up in the quiet, secluded woodlands of the north, where steep mountain slopes hemmed the forests. When city life grew suffocating — as it sometimes did — he walked, any route, for as long as it took. The back-alley route home was a comfortable distance for walking. The occasional troublemaker looking for a fight was the only nuisance — and on a day like today, he half-wished someone would try.

Kloff adjusted his grip on the heavy cane he always carried on these walks, and disappeared into the darkness of the alley that led downhill.

By the time he reached home, the physical fatigue had mounted, but at least the mental weight had eased somewhat. When he opened the door, the maid he had hired not long ago — Martha — greeted him with mild surprise.

"You're home early."

She took the coat, hat, and cane he handed her.

"Did you run into another rabid dog? There's blood on your cane."

"Ah. Yes."

"I should report it to the city office."

"I already did. I'm going to bed early tonight, Martha, so get some rest. I don't need dinner."

Kloff spoke to the middle-aged omega woman, whose tone had turned worried, and headed upstairs. He was already pulling off his tie on the stairs, his waistcoat off by the landing. Inside his room he undid the top buttons of his shirt, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto the bed.

He knew, more or less, why he was in such a foul mood. The first cause was physical frustration. The second was guilt at being unable to give his lover his full mental fidelity. He could not fathom why that alpha was worth this much anguish. Before they'd resumed contact — when he had forgotten the man existed — life had been peaceful. The moment Aeroc intruded, everything fell apart.

It's just pent-up frustration. That cologne of his — probably some pheromone-laced thing the playboy types wear. He looks like Rapiel, too, only more mature, so my wires are getting crossed. It's all because the wedding's been delayed. That's it. Exactly. So stop thinking useless thoughts and just propose already.

Kloff sat up, rummaged through the jacket he'd tossed aside, and pulled out the ring box. He lay back down and studied the platinum-and-sapphire ring, then fell asleep without properly undressing.

* * *

In his dream, he was holding a golden-haired, blue-eyed omega — fragile, so fragile. The omega appeared to be pregnant; the belly was slightly swollen. Each time the enraged alpha's cock drove into the inner walls, the omega let out a thin, keening moan that only spurred the act on. When he — thrusting savagely from behind — reached his climax and poured himself into the body that had already conceived, the omega collapsed, panting. He was furious, for reasons he could not name, and he seized the arm — so thin it looked as though the slightest pressure would snap it — and roughly turned the prone figure onto its back. He thought he was worried about the baby being crushed.

As though watching from outside himself, he looked toward the omega's face. Turned over now, the face was so badly beaten it was barely recognizable. Through a gap in the disheveled clothing, the bruises covering the body were not evidence of passion. They were evidence of violence.

Through lank, dull gold hair, a pair of eyes — strikingly bright, almost liquid blue — looked up at him.