Page 27 of Honeythorn
Milan didn’t know if he was more preoccupied than usual or if Raphael was colder at dinner that day. Either way, it surprised him immensely when Raphael was the one to begin the conversation.
“Did you enjoy your visit?” he asked, and Milan couldn’t help but notice the thread of disdain in his tone.
“Very much, thank you. Are you not fond of Katerina?” Milan didn’t miss Raphael’s deepening frown at the lack of a title.
“I like Miss Rosewood well enough, but she is a big gossip.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that, but sometimes it’s good to be abreast of the local news.”
Raphael snorted. “Local news? You mean rumours.”
Milan shrugged, not in complete disagreement and therefore, did not bother to argue back. Still, it was the perfect opening to have a conversation that was more than due.
“Lord Raphael…I have to admit—I didn’t pry, but I did learn some things about…”
Raphael gave him a sharp look, putting his utensils down on the table. Milan did the same.
“Well, your past.”
“What about my past?” Raphael said so quietly that the hairs on the back of Milan’s neck stood up. His body was telling him to abort the conversation, but his stubbornness pressed on.
“Well, I just thought it pertinent, seeing as I am your new husband—”
The noise of disgust Raphael made in response cut to the quick. Milan hadn’t known Raphael had such power over him still. Raphael snarled, “You think you can go off and dig into my past, my personal affairs, and come here with that innocent look on your face and claw yourself further into me?”
Milan gaped. “No, of course not. I only wanted—”
“I know what you want. What you all want.” Raphael stood up, voice low and more dangerous than a shout. Instinctively, and much to Milan’s embarrassment, the sight of not only an Alpha but the Alpha tied to him, looking at him with such vitriol and hate in his eyes, made him shrink in his seat, heart racing.
“Let me make something clear,” Raphael said. “You can invade my household, poison the minds of my staff, insert your unwelcome nose in my business—but you will never,never, infect my heart, or my soul. This…bond,” he said with revulsion, making a vague gesture, “is nothing. I am your husband on paper, but not in spirit. I will not be yours. I will make sure of it until my dying breath. Do you understand?”
Milan could only stare. He was struck dumb and cold by all his fear being speared through his chest at once.
At Milan’s silence, Raphael banged his fist against the table—the first act of violence Milan had seen from him.
To Milan’s horror, he cried out and jumped, covering his face instinctively. “Yes,” he said quickly, for, at last, he really did understand.
Despite no exertion of the body, Milan was panting, fear coursing through him. His mind was in pieces. His body was being guided by old instincts, which instructed him to sit still and yet tremble like some pathetic creature, hands raised as if expecting a blow.
There was a long moment of silence before Milan heard Raphael stride out.
Still, Milan could not seem to lower his arms until, without his permission, a sudden sob left his chest. A great, heaving thing, it seemed to take over his body for a moment, like a retch. He clapped a hand over his mouth, refusing to make such a noise again, even as fear still pulsed, shame nipping at his heels.
Is this what he was? A cowering Omega, crying at a few harsh words? Unbidden, the faces of his loving family came to mind. Their kindness, their comfort.
He could not believe how much he missed them. How completely alone he truly was.
Milan’s eyes burnt with the force not to shed tears. His mouth, a moment ago parched, became pasty. He took a deep breath before gulping down his glass of water, pressing the corners of his eyes when he finished, as if that would keep them under control.
Milan sat for a long while, trying to steady his breathing. He was afraid that moving would shake something loose and cause him to collapse.
“My Lord?”
Milan almost jumped out of his skin, turning sharply to see Melissa there—an unusual sight in the dining room.
“Oh, Melissa. I’m sorry—you’re probably all waiting to clean up.” His chair scraped across the floor as he stood up abruptly. “Sorry, sorry—I’m being clumsy.” He stepped to the side, almost tripping on his chair before attempting to put it back in place. He fought with the thing until two hands rested on his gently. He looked at Melissa—at the soft pity in her eyes. He drew his hands away.
The whole manor had probably heard Lord Raphael banging the table and shouting his last demand. Shame was hot as it coursed through him.
