Aiden lingered at the corner of the banquet hall, his fingers curled loosely around the stem of a crystal goblet.
The wine within was dark and heavy, a bitter vintage that clung to the tongue and burned faintly on its descent. He sipped it not for pleasure, but for the rhythm of the act—for the illusion of composure while his golden eyes never strayed far from the duke.
Augustus. The venerable noble wrapped in velvet and authority. The man who carried both the weight of a title and the shadow of corruption.
Aiden's lips tightened as the memory returned unbidden. Augustus bore the same mark—tainted. Just as Sabrina once had.
Sabrina…
He had torn that affliction from her with his own hands, with his own body, with a brutal and desperate claiming that shattered chains invisible to all but him.
But Augustus? No amount of strength or intimacy could unweave what bound that man.
Why?
Why could he free one and not the other?
