Page 90 of Ruthless God

Something unexpected happens.

Her glare softens, shifting into something closer to concern. For the first time, she looks genuinely worried about him.

And then, just as quickly, her focus turns to me.

Her gaze pleads—for what, I have no idea. Help? Understanding? Convincing him to leave?

She tries again, gentler this time. “Sir, you should go inside. You don’t need to see this.”

But we all know the truth. He does.

“I’m staying and if you have a problem with it, then perhaps you should return to the house!”

She flinches at his tone, but nods. “Of course, sir.”

I expect Agnes to turn back toward the house. What I don’t expect is for her to step closer, her hand brushing against my arm.

“Ms. Blight? May I speak with you?” Her voice is measured, but there’s something urgent beneath it.

I glance at Claudius, but his attention is elsewhere, lost in whatever storm is raging inside him.

Agnes leans in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Please.”

Something in the way she says it—not demanding, not scolding, but pleading—makes me nod. Dipping my head, I follow as she leads me a few steps away.

Once we stop, she wastes no time.

“Ms. Blight, I know you and I have had little time to get to know each other, but I’ve seen the way you look at Mr. Irons.”

I part my lips to shut that thought down and tell her she’s lost her mind, but she rushes on before I can.

“I, too, care for him, which is why we need to get him inside. Now.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “Look, I get it. Seeing the body is going to be traumatic?—”

“It’s going to devastate him!” she hisses, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

She draws in a shaky breath, casting a glance at Claudius before turning back to me.

“You weren’t here after… it happened. You didn’t see what he became. The mess he was.” Her voice wavers, just for a moment, but then she presses on. “This is going to destroy him, and I’m uncertain he’ll be able to pull himself back together this time.”

I look over at Claudius again. He’s still standing there, staring into the grave like it holds all the answers.

And for the first time, I feel the weight of what Agnes is truly saying.

“I can try,” I finally say, though doubt creeps in. “But I’m not sure he’ll listen.”

Agnes’ eyes flash with desperation. “Do whatever it takes. Pass out. Anything!”

Her frantic tone jolts me into action.

I turn back to Claudius, stepping up beside him and resting a hand on his arm. His body is rigid, every muscle drawn taut.

“Maybe we should go inside,” I suggest gently. “These men know how to do their job.”

His gaze cuts to me, sharp and unyielding. “No.”

“Claudius, this is?—”

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