Page 3 of Duke of Rath

He galloped through the foggy countryside, his muscles burning, rising slightly from the saddle as his hips moved in sync with the horse’s gait, absorbing the motion. Dark silhouettes of gnarled trees loomed through the fog overhead, old and lifeless, just like he felt inside. He relished the sensation of the wind cutting through him. The speed. The freedom. A wild flight.

Dorian’s fury burned within him as he rode, seeking solace in the intensity of his physical exertion. Yet no matter how far or fast he rode, he could not escape what was in his head…what never left him.

The vivid memory of the day when his wrath had led him to take Mr. John Rose’s life in a duel…

His suspicion of John sabotaging his pistol.

The assurance of both his and John’s seconds that nothing was untoward.

And then the explosion of the gun in his hand.

Wrath consuming him, taking over him in an unimaginable force.

The fight… John’s gun firing… His body slackening against Dorian.

Dead.

When Dorian finally returned to Rath Hall and dismounted next to the pond at the back of the garden, his clothing was drenched with sweat. His breath pumped out of him, blending into the cold, foggy air. Titan was breathing hard, too, as he walked around the pond’s shore sniffing at the overgrown grass.

Dorian’s muscles ached, which was exactly what he wanted. Yet his mind remained restless, haunted by memories of that fateful morning twelve years ago when he became a murderer. Though it was March, and the water was bitterly cold, Dorian took off his boots, ran a few steps, and plunged into the pond’s murky depths.

The shock pierced through his very soul, but he welcomed it. The icy embrace of the pond enveloped him, its numbing touch creeping through his veins. Each stroke felt like a battle against the relentless grip of the past. Dark, silty water clouded his vision. He continued swimming, his limbs growing heavier with each passing moment, his chest tightening. Could he ever escape this darkness? Could he ever be free? he wondered, his heart heavy with sorrow and regret.

The icy water clung to Dorian’s skin like a shroud, chilling him to the bone as he dragged himself up the muddy bank. He collapsed, gasping for breath, his chest heaving.

As he blinked the water out of his eyes, a movement caught his attention in the distance—two riders he recognized at once, even through the fog. These dukes were his closest allies, bound together by their shared sins and secrets. As he stood up, water running off him to puddle on the ground, they rode closer and stopped before him.

“There you are, Dorian,” Lucien, the Duke of Luhst, called out as he descended from his horse, his voice amused as he surveyed his friend’s drenched form. His golden hair was accentuated by the yellow patterns on his coat, his family crest bearing an elegant stag. “Engaging in your customary pursuits, I see. Enough. We’ve come to fetch you back to the city. Your absence has been noted.”

Next to Lucien, Constantine Buccleigh, the Duke of Pryde, dismounted as well, standing tall and proud. He was clad in indigo, the wolf on his crest a testament to his fierce loyalty and honor. He hadn’t changed much in the past twelve years, apart from growing colder, wearing his pride like suit of armor. However, since that terrible morning, he had become a friend, Dorian’s closest after Lucien.

“Where are the rest of the seven?” asked Dorian.

He meant the rest of their brotherhood—the Seven Dukes of Sin, as they playfully called themselves, since they seemed to embody the seven deadly sins. Even their names fit: Rath, Luhst, Pryde, Enveigh, Irevrence, Eccess, and Fortyne.

“Waiting in Elysium, of course,” replied Pryde.

Emitting playful whines, Titan trotted towards them. The fearful beast was gone, and Dorian’s hound of hell wagged his wiry, broom-like tail as he licked the hands of the dukes, whining and whimpering. Pryde’s face split in a grin, and the prideful duke was replaced by a boy happy to finally be able to play with a puppy. He dropped to his knees and scratched Titan’s long belly as the dog lolled on his back in bliss.

“Let us depart for the city, and may the demons within us be appeased,” said Lucien.

They left their horses at the stables and strode into Rath Hall through the grand but dim hallways where portraits of Dorian’s ancestors stared at them from dark oil paintings. Tall Greek statues, sideboards with statuettes, vases, and relics from all over the world filled the halls—treasures his father had been so proud to acquire.

The dukes followed Dorian to his bedchamber where his valet, Howe, threw a glance at his hand. The flesh was still raw, although it had stopped bleeding. “I’ll clean them myself,” Dorian said.

He didn’t even let his valet see the scars on his right hand. He went into the changing chamber alone and removed the glove, absorbing every bit of the excruciating pain. He cleaned the blood in the washbasin, dried his skin, and put a fresh leather glove on his right hand.

As he returned to the room, the butler, Popwell, was pouring drinks for Luhst and Pryde, the clink of fine crystal and the rich aroma of aged brandy filling the room.

“Is Chastity at home?” asked Lucien as he looked out the window.

Dorian, Chastity, and Lucien had grown up together, and Lucien always asked about Chastity. Dorian knew he could trust Lucien like a brother, after everything they went through, but Lucien was a rake, a man who could seduce almost anyone he set his sights on.

“She is, probably still breaking her fast with my aunt.”

“Lucien, you know you can literally have any woman in the world but Lady Chastity Perrin?” asked Pryde.

“He knows.” Dorian threw a somber warning look at Lucien, who, uncharacteristically for him, looked sheepish.