Daniel's flings had never bothered him before—not truly. Not in the way their aftermath used to. Demetrius had grown used to his brother’s cruelty, to the routine of it all: the careless conquests, the scent of blood and perfume lingering in the halls, the way Daniel would use them up—rough, unfeeling, merciless—and toss them aside like refuse.

And Demetrius, ever the quiet redeemer, would follow. Always too late, always just in time to hand them a coat, a scarf, a measure of dignity. He’d call for a carriage, murmur soft apologies that weren’t his to give, and watch the broken women disappear into the night, haunted by the same guilt every time.

It was mechanical by now—grievously so—so when Daniel had sauntered through the great oak doors weeks ago, a new woman slung over his shoulder like plunder, Demetrius only sighed and waited for dawn to wash her away like the others.

But dawn came. Then dusk. And again. And still, she stayed.

Daniel had grown oddly possessive, guarding his room like a dragon hoarding gold. Mealtime became strange—portions tucked away beneath his shirt, red-stained napkins folded too carefully. Demetrius should have known something was wrong, should've sensed it before anyone had even mentioned anything.

André’s insistence on 'fatherly bonding' had peeled Daniel away for the evening. The house, cavernous and silent, became a cradle of temptation. He should’ve been in the study, poring over scrolls, planning merchant routes and diplomatic letters. But that scent—something soft, like crushed violets and old fear—drifted under Daniel’s door and curled around Demetrius’ senses like a hand.

He pushed back his white hair with a sigh, letting his fingers linger longer than necessary against his temple, as if calming some invisible ache. He knocked once. Twice. The third time, the door creaked open with a reluctant groan.

“Pardon the intrusion, my name is Deme—”

He froze. The words died in his throat.

There she was.

Beautiful.

No, more than that. Ethereal. Fragile. Like something carved from moonlight and dreams. But her eyes—gods, her eyes—wide and terrified, darting around the room like a trapped deer’s. Her wrists were bound to the bedposts with crude rope, not silks, nothing gentle. The bruises around them bloomed like shadows, dark and damning.

“That barbarian,” Demetrius muttered under his breath, voice laced with venom. He took one step forward, then stopped, frozen by the look she gave him—fearful, trembling.

She thinks I’m like him.

The thought gutted him.

He lowered himself at once, slow and deliberate, hands raised in peace like an old knight laying down his sword. “You needn’t fear me, Little Rose,” he murmured, voice thick with something softer now—something near pleading. “I swear it on my life, I’m not him. I’d never...”

His breath hitched, his gaze flicking to her wrists again. He swallowed hard.

“I’m here to help you. Let me untie you, yes?”