Chapter 45

“Thank you for your generous offer,” Elwin managed, lifting his spoon to deflect further intrusion. “Please, let us enjoy the meal.”

Struggling to suppress the impossible ambition Leon had ignited, Elwin found himself unable to taste a single bite. The silence proved contagious. With both Dwight and Leon retreating into quiet contemplation, a stifling, heavy atmosphere settled over the dining room. Each man remained marooned in his own thoughts. It was only when the final dessert plates were cleared that Dwight broke the silence, turning to Elwin with a smile so blindingly bright it sent a shiver down his spine.

“The dinner was exemplary, Sir Elwin,” Dwight murmured. “If you are not too fatigued, might I request a brief moment of your time?”

While Elwin hesitated, struggling to parse the older man’s intentions, Dwight turned to Leon. Instantly, his polite mask dissolved, replaced by a cold, imperious glare.

“I require a private audience with the young master,” Dwight commanded, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Excuse yourself.”

The demand was raw, heavy with aristocratic arrogance—not something Leon could deflect with his usual glib charm. Leon paused. He showed no hint of intimidation, but his eyes narrowed slightly, calculating his next move.

“Naturally,” Leon said, offering a smooth, elegant bow. “Please, do not let me disrupt your conversation.”

A flash of betrayal stung Elwin’s chest, even as his logical mind validated the retreat. Had Leon resisted, a violent confrontation would have been inevitable; Leon had simply recognized that tonight was not the night to draw swords.

Left alone in the cavernous dining hall, Dwight let that terrible, pleasant smile return. Elwin’s pulse hammered against his ribs. Panic flared: Is he going to propose to me right here, tonight? When Dwight reached slowly into the breast pocket of his tailored jacket, Elwin’s dread spiked. Please, god, let it not be a ring.

Just then, a faint rustle stirred outside the heavy double doors. The footsteps were too light, too deliberate to be casual. Either a curious servant or perhaps Leon himself lingered in the corridor to eavesdrop. The thought of Leon listening in made Elwin’s stomach twist, but the alternative was scarcely better. If it were Toby out there, the eager servant would likely overhear a proposal and begin drafting wedding invitations before dawn. A cold shiver ran down Elwin’s spine at the mere prospect.

“It is nothing to be alarmed about,” Dwight said softly.

To Elwin’s profound relief, Dwight withdrew not a velvet ring box, but a sleek, polished silver flask. Elwin exhaled a silent, shuddering breath of gratitude.

“I felt it would be terribly uncouth of me to keep depleting the late count’s cellar of his finest whiskey,” Dwight remarked with a thin smile.

At Dwight’s request, a maid had brought a clean glass toward the end of their meal. Elwin had assumed he merely intended to indulge his usual nightcap, but instead, Dwight slowly unscrewed the flask and poured a deep, rich liquid into the glass.

The amber fluid shimmered a deep reddish-brown in the candlelight, throwing off an unfamiliar, cloyingly sweet aroma. Dwight pushed the glass, filled just under the halfway mark, across the table to Elwin, then poured an equal measure for himself.

“An imported cognac, highly prized in my family’s estate,” Dwight explained, gesturing to the glass. “I brought it along to stave off the weariness of the road, and I would be honored if you would share a taste with me, my lord.”

Who packs their own heavy spirits for a diplomatic visit? Elwin thought, though he kept his expression perfectly neutral. To reject the offering would invite an immediate slight; etiquette manuals had drilled it into him that declining a guest’s toast was a grave social offense.

“You are most kind,” Elwin murmured, raising the crystal.

Dwight offered a silent nod, bringing his own glass to his lips. Elwin followed suit, taking a modest sip. An intense, almost cloying sweetness immediately coated his tongue, masking the sharp burn of the alcohol.

“It is… remarkably sweet,” Elwin noted politely.

Dwight tapped the small porcelain dish of roasted nuts remaining on the table. “It pairs beautifully with almonds.”

Reluctantly, Elwin took an almond, chewed it slowly, and washed it down with another swallow of the heavy spirit. He remained braced for the blow, waiting for the sudden romantic overture or heavy-handed proposal to drop. Yet, the moment Elwin drained the last drop, Dwight set his glass down and unexpectedly declared the evening at an end.

“The hour grows late,” Dwight said, rising from his chair. “Shall we retire for the night?”

A wave of sheer relief washed over Elwin. Before Dwight could change his mind, suggest a second glass, or propose an agonizing midnight stroll through the gardens, Elwin scrambled to his feet, eager to make his escape.

“Ah…”

The word caught in his throat. Suddenly, the room listed violently. The dining hall blurred into a smear of candlelight and shadow. As Elwin swayed, losing his footing in the sudden wave of vertigo, Dwight’s fingers clamped firmly around his forearm.

“Careful, Sir Elwin,” Dwight murmured, his voice low and intimate.

The sudden press of Dwight’s body heat and the oily quality of his voice sent a wave of raw revulsion through Elwin’s veins. Forcing his eyes to focus through the mounting haze, he yanked his arm free and stumbled backward, desperate to re-establish a safe distance.

“I—I am quite well,” Elwin stammered, his chest heaving. “My apologies. A momentary lapse.”

When he forced his gaze upward to dismiss the man, he found Dwight watching him with a predatory, thin-lipped smile, his eyes narrowed into dark, calculating crescents. An ominous scent hovered in the air—was it the dregs of the sweet cognac, or the heavy, suffocating pressure of an Alpha’s pheromones?

Elwin felt like prey cornered in the brush, cold terror locking his joints. But before his panic could escalate, Dwight released him, stepping back with smooth, mocking compliance.

“You must be exhausted,” Dwight said softly, bowing his head. “Sleep well, Sir Elwin. I wish you a peaceful night.”

Fleeing that polite yet deeply unsettling farewell, Elwin managed to navigate the corridors back to his chambers. The world refused to stop spinning. Whether the cognac had been extraordinarily potent or the day’s relentless tension had magnified its effects, the vertigo only worsened. By the time Toby arrived to prepare the turn-down service, Elwin could barely keep himself upright. He dismissed the servant with a hurried wave, desperate to be alone. The moment the door clicked shut and he collapsed onto the mattress, a heavy, inexplicable dread settled over his chest.

I must sleep, he told himself. Once I wake, this will have passed.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His limbs felt leaden, pinned to the mattress by an artificial gravity, while his mind spun in sickening circles. He braced himself for a restless, sleepless night, yet a sudden, dark tide of unconsciousness swept over him.

A fever dream took hold—vivid, garish, and unsettling. It was a damp, suffocating nightmare. A strange, unnatural heat bloomed deep within his core, winding like liquid fire through his veins. An invisible, crushing weight settled onto his chest, pinning him to the bed as though he were trapped in the vice-like grip of sleep paralysis.

“Elwin!”

To hear his father’s voice after so long confirmed the unreality of it all. He was dreaming.

I am sorry, Father, he whispered to the dark of his own mind. I cannot answer you… my head is spinning too much. I am sorry for everything. If only I had been stronger, more responsible… If only I had never been born an Omega.

“Elwin!”

As grief threatened to pull him under, the voice called out again, sharper this time. The jarring clarity of the sound pierced the fog of his dazed mind. This was no dream. With a low groan, Elwin fought against the heavy weight of his eyelids, forcing them open.

“What in heaven’s name is this?” a cold, irritated voice grumbled.

The harsh words shattered his lethargy. Elwin’s eyes snapped open, staring up at the familiar wood-beamed ceiling. Reality crashed over him: the voice crying his name had not been his late father’s ghost, but Echo, his pet parrot.

And the second voice—the one that had just complained…

No. Please, no.

His heart plummeted into a cold void. Fighting the lingering drug in his veins, Elwin pushed himself up on trembling elbows and stared toward his writing desk.

Deep night had engulfed the manor. The chamber lay bathed in shadows, illuminated only by the pale, ghostly shafts of moonlight filtering through the windowpanes. Beside his desk stood the tall, imposing silhouette of a man. The figure turned, moving with slow, deliberate grace.

Under the cold moon, his platinum blond hair gleamed with a pale, icy-blue luster. His skin was deathly pale.

Dwight’s lips curved into a slow, crooked smile.

“Ah,” Dwight murmured, his eyes locking onto Elwin’s. “You are awake, Sir Elwin.”

***