"Tell me why he did it," Lucien asked lowly, his eyes narrowed.
"I... he did nothing," Elian choked out, gritting his teeth.
There was no way they were going to get him to testify against his father. The poor man was already dead; they need not keep defaming his name.
He wouldn't allow it.
Thunder crackled above the roof as Lucien's fingers pressed harder against Elian's racing pulse under his chin.
Lightning pierced the sky, illuminating their faces for a second.
It was brief, but enough to highlight Elian's features under Lucien's dark gaze.
He hadn't seen much of Elian on the day his father was executed, but he knew his curly brown hair wasn't this long. It seemed to have grown longer in three months, falling over his shoulders from lack of grooming. His haunting blue eyes were filled with deep hatred and loathing, and his lips—firmly pressed into a thin line—were an act of direct defiance.
Lucien inhaled quietly, his green eyes darkening until they were almost black.
A shove.
Thud!
"Ahh!" Elian cried out painfully as his side collided roughly with the edge of the mahogany desk from Lucien's merciless shove.
Lucien watched Elian as he almost knocked over the hurricane shade from his desk but managed to steady himself, clutching his side and breathing hard.
He had hit his side harder than his weak body could take.
"I will make your days dark, Young Morel," Lucien said, finally stepping out of the shadows.
"You will beg to meet your father's fate," he continued calmly as he strode toward Elian, his face as unreadable as still water.
He gave nothing away in his expression, but he made sure that his aura and words left Elian with a vivid image of what he had planned to do to him.
Elian coughed, his chest and ribs protesting from the pain.
He bent over, clutching his stomach and heaving.
"My... my father was innocent. He didn't deserve..." A brutal cough attacked him, his whole body shaking as blood spurted onto the floor from his mouth.
Elian's eyes widened in horror as he saw the crimson liquid trickling down his chin to stain the expensive floor. His legs gave out, and he fell limp on the floor. He felt his throat and chest burn, his breathing becoming more of a labor as he tried to stay alive.
"Edgar," Lucien called calmly, not batting an eye at the dying young man in front of him.
At that instant, the study door opened, and in walked the tall guard.
"Your grace," Edgar bowed.
"Take him away. The stables," Lucien commanded.
Edgar bowed again. "Yes, your grace."
In two steps, Edgar hauled Elian up from the floor. "Out," he said bitterly, dragging the weak man out of the study.
Lucien's brow creased as he watched a heaving Elian being dragged away. For a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of something in Elian's eyes—a flicker of something unnatural, gone before he could name it. He must have been mistaken.
The door clicked shut just as lightning flashed, highlighting the spots of blood on his floor.
He frowned.
That commoner boy had dared to stain his polished floor with his unworthy blood. He was going to make sure that Elian regretted the day the gods put him in his mother's womb.
He heard the thunder crackle heavily outside—just the right weather for a traitor's son to sleep outside.
He dusted off invisible specks from his doublet and walked toward his desk. He placed everything back in its original position, as they had shifted slightly from Elian's fall.
Once again, his eyes went to the blood on the floor, and a thought formed in his head: he was going to make the Morel boy bleed for as long as he could.
That would be a lesson for what he did tonight.
Lucien left his study, his steps unhurried as he walked deeper into the hallway. He reached the end, where a very tall wooden door with intricate engravings stood.
"Goodnight, your grace," a young guard standing in front of the door bowed his head as he spoke, gently pushing the door open to let the Duke through.
Lucien ignored the young guard and strode forward.
As the door shut behind him, the echoes bounced off the dark stone walls, flickering the candles hanging closer to the door.
He was in his sanctuary, a place no other human entered without his permission.
In front of him, the candles illuminated the spiral staircases leading to his private wing.
Slowly, he started his ascent.
His mind was heavy with thought as his fingers expertly began to unbutton his clothes. He was eager to rid himself of his heavy clothing just as he was eager to get rid of that defiant Morel boy.
Finally, he emerged from the stairs, walking the short hallway to his chambers.
His shirt was already hanging from his arm as he stepped into his chamber, his movements calm and unhurried, as though nothing in the world could disturb him. He stepped deeper into the room and discarded the shirt over the back of a carved chair.
He stood there, staring blankly at the fireplace, watching the flames dance and the fire crackle.
A loud cry suddenly pierced the quiet night, and his legs moved before he could stop them. He walked past his king-sized canopy bed and approached his window.
Calmly, he used his fingers to move aside his heavy midnight-blue velvet curtain, the black silk lining drawn just enough to allow the moonlight to spill through.
Far from his mansion was his stable, and even though the splattering rain obscured his vision through the frosted panes, he easily made out Elian's figure being roughly dragged across the muddy ground and toward the stable.
His brows creased.
He knew the boy was not as he portrayed himself to be. He felt the raw rage and fight within Elian the moment he set his eyes on him.
Those blue eyes might look deep and calm, but Lucien had lived long enough to recognize deceit when he was met with it.
That was exactly what shaped him to become the man he was today: deceit.
He had faced it so many times that numbers failed him to keep count.
And something was telling him to keep an eye on Elian. If not, he might just have released a potential murderer from the dungeons.
Letting Elian rot in the dungeon cells was too merciful an act. He needed to make him work and suffer for his father's sins.
Keeping him in the dungeon and feeding him—even if it was once a day—was a waste of resources. If Elian would eat from his hand, then he must work for every crumb.
He was a Duke, feared across the country for his iron rule.
If Elian's father was innocent, as the boy claimed, then why did his food taster die instantly after eating the food served by Elian's father?
Another shout pierced the air, and he looked to see Edgar beating the boy under the pouring rain.
He released the curtain from his fingers, stepping away from the window, a frown marring his handsome face.
Edgar was overstepping his authority. He had only instructed for Elian to be taken away, not beaten, but he would let it pass for now. After all, it was just Elian, not anyone of importance.
He headed to his table and picked up a heavy book.
His thumb slowly ran over the thick, smooth binding of the book before he turned and walked back to his bed.
Sleep was his enemy; books were his companion, and he had no plan to change it.
Morning came with the sun chasing off the dark clouds from the night before. Birds chirped near Lucien's window, their soft harmony drifting into his quiet room.
Lucien slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his chest. His book was lying there, just as it had been when sleep seized him at the crack of dawn.
Elian.
That name had him sitting up with a frown.
Today was going to be an eventful day, filled with punishments for a son who had refused to confess to his father's sins.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Your grace, it is morning," a woman's pitched voice spoke behind his doors.
He sighed and peeled his book off his chest, throwing his legs down from the bed.
"Come in, Ms. Beck," he answered, unzipping his pants and letting them fall to his ankles.
The door opened, and a short, stout woman in a black-and-white maid's uniform walked in, carrying two jars of piping hot water.
"Your bath will be ready in a moment, your grace," Ms. Beck said, carrying the jars into Lucien's bathroom without batting an eye at his naked figure.
"Ms. Beck," Lucien called, wrapping a towel around his waist.
"Yes, your grace," she answered, the sound of water being poured accompanying her voice.
"Bring word to my guard, Edgar. The Morel boy should be waiting by the time I appear," he instructed.
"Yes, your grace," Ms. Beck bowed as she walked out of the bathroom, now carrying two empty jars in her hands.
She was almost at the door when Lucien stopped her again.
"He shall not be fed. Not without my consent," he said darkly.