Page 141 of Immortal Rose

Glenmoor recovered quickly enough, looking utterly delighted. A chill rippled down Hugh’s spine. God, he would rip the man apart with his bare hands. A sword was too clean a death. There wouldn’t be enough suffering, enough humiliation.

His next thrust was sloppy but bore the full strength of his arm and shoulder. The blow knocked the blade out of Glenmoor’s hand, and the man laughed. “As I said, patience and skill. I suppose I inherited the lot of it from our father.”

Laughter rippled through the school.

“Pick it up,” Hugh said coldly, pointing to the blade. “Unless you mean to forfeit?”

Glenmoor held out a hand, and one of the simpering lordlings obediently scrambled to retrieve the blade and return it to him. His head tilted as he resumed his en garde stance. His strange eyes were now aglow with pleasure.

Reddy shifted at the edge of Hugh’s vision, stone-faced, as if to stir the memory of his own words: He wants you furious—he knows he cannot beat you otherwise.

Hugh assumed his own stance, trying to steady his breathing.

“Prêt?” Alcorn called reluctantly. “Allez!”

They clashed again, repelling each other with a clatter of metal and burning will. Hugh lunged for Glenmoor’s heart, but the blade was caught in time and eased away. Someone in the crowd gasped as the stiffened canvas of Glenmoor’s jacket gaped open, sliced clean through. It had done its work and protected the skin there.

But Glenmoor’s shoulder was still bleeding, dripping spirals of blood onto the mat. Breaths shuddered as Hugh and Glenmoor locked their blades.

“I always knew you’d pick someone unsuitable,” Glenmoor murmured. “But I hadn’t imagined you’d scoop a baseborn whore out of the gutters—”

Hugh surged forward, all finesse, all sense, lost. Fury locked him in a vicious dance, blazing hotter at the sight of the duke’s taunting smirk, the barely restrained glee.

Sense pierced the red haze that covered Hugh’s mind. He wants this.

Glenmoor had predicted this. He’d known Hugh would surrender to his truest self, to answer honor’s bloodthirsty demands. He wants you furious.

“I suppose she fits in well in your household,” Glenmoor continued. “I was surprised to find such rough characters working in what was once a dignified family home. And how curious, despite my best efforts, I have never been able to find records of any of them—not so much as a birthdate, let alone what else they might have done in years past.”

The world tilted violently. Panic swarmed him, blurring the onlookers and Hugh’s thoughts. No, he and Uncle Giles had taken care to protect them. They had done everything to carve out safety for them.

He wants you furious.

Reddy’s warning finally took root, spreading its icy fingers through him. Something in Glenmoor’s expression hardened, as if he saw through Hugh’s fury to the spidering cracks in his resolve.

And when Hugh struck again, so did he.

Glenmoor feigned his back foot slipping in the puddled blood. He dropped to a knee, lowering his arms as if to regain his balance and, in doing so, let his sword tip fall.

Had Hugh been even a step closer, his blade would have pierced Glenmoor’s exposed chest. Somehow, he seized control of his body, straining his arm to a hard stop. The deadly tip of his blade caught just at the hollow of Glenmoor’s throat.

Blood welled there as Hugh’s arm shook, as he fought to steady his breathing and dull the roaring in his ears.

The duke’s eyes dilated, as if, at last, he had the satisfaction of placing the final piece of a puzzle. “Well?” he rasped out.

Hugh’s vision darkened. Sweat coated his face and dampened his back. The moment stilled, poised on the very tip of his blade. Breath wouldn’t come, no matter how hard he fought to summon it. His mother’s face swam before him. Viola’s. Eleanor’s. Everyone he had failed. The women this man had sought to crush. It had to be answered—it had to be.

But there was another woman’s voice in his mind, abiding.

If you continue to sacrifice parts of yourself, soon all you’ll have left to offer are your heart and your humanity.

God, he wasn’t strong enough to finish this, nor was he strong enough to walk away. Glenmoor knew this, knew him, the way Hugh had been forced to learn him. Blood had bound them before revenge. This was the duke taking a calculated risk—to prove that Hugh lacked the courage to finish it. To show the others once and for all that Hugh was a villain, the hotheaded wreck of a man Glenmoor had spent years painting him as.

. . . your heart and your humanity . . .

Two things the duke did not possess, and never had.

Two things Hugh would never offer to him.