Page 60 of The Last Kiss

“Thank you,” Ash breathed, reaching up to kiss him again. “I love you, Harry. So much.”

Like last night, Harry lay down behind him on the narrow bed. He propped himself up on one elbow, threading his fingers through Ash’s hair until he felt his body soften and relax, his breathing slow and deepen. From outside, a breeze stirred the curtains and Harry watched them shift, billowing into the room before they stilled.

He’d leave soon, once Ash was deeply asleep.

While he waited, he let his head sink onto the pillow next to Ash’s — just for a moment. He allowed his arm to curl around Ash’s waist, splaying his hand over the warm bare skin of his stomach, and breathed in the redolent scent of his hair. He smiled, heart full of the knowledge that in his arms Ash could find peace.

And he let his eyes close. Just for a moment.

CHAPTERTWENTY

Ash drifted in a warm safe place between sleep and wakefulness. Around his waist lay the comforting weight of Harry’s arm, his slow sleepy breaths tickling the back of Ash’s neck. Outside, the occasional chirrup of birdsong presaged the dawn chorus, but the night was still thick and Ash let himself drowse in the comfort of Harry’s embrace for a little —

Noise blasted him awake.

He jolted upright into the heart-hammering horror of bright light and bellowing.

“Out!” Sir Arthur roared from the doorway, absurd in his silk dressing gown. “Get this...this…this filthy pervert out of my house.”

Culham, who stood at Sir Arthur’s shoulder, lurched forward, white-faced in the stark electric light. John Pierson smirked in the hallway beyond, flanked by a grim looking Boyd.

“He was having a nightmare.” Harry scrambled off the bed, hands raised in surrender. He looked grey as a bitter dawn, more frightened than Ash had ever seen him. “I was just — ”

“Culham!” Sir Arthur roared. “Get him out.” The footman, only half dressed himself, grabbed Harry’s arm, hauling him barefoot toward the door. “And you,Ashleigh.” Sir Arthur spat his name. “On your feet.”

He didn’t have his prosthetic on and was shaking too much to move. His heart pounded like it might rupture. “I c-c-can’t — ”

“Up! Stand up like a bloody man.”

“For God’s sake!” Harry wrenched free of Culham and put himself between Ash and his father. “He doesn’t have his leg on, he can’t — ”

With a guttural roar, Sir Arthur punched him. The wild, enraged swing of his fist sent Harry staggering backward onto the bed.

“Harry!” Ash grabbed him, but Harry pushed him off and surged back to his feet with a murderous cry.

“You bastard!” He shoved Sir Arthur hard in the chest, sending him reeling. “Don’t you dare fucking touch me.”

Harry lurched forward, fist raised, but Ash caught his shirt and dragged him back. “Stop! Harry, don’t!”

Splayed in an undignified sprawl against a chest of drawers, Sir Arthur glared with ferocious loathing. “Get. Him.Out.”

Culham leaped to obey, Boyd not far behind. “Come on,” he growled, a gnarled hand on Harry’s arm. “Come on, boy. Don’t make this worse for yourself.”

Harry shook his head, twisting around. “Ash...” A world of anguish in that single syllable, a world of despair in his eyes.

“Go,” he said roughly, vision blurring. “You have to go.”Run, he wanted to say.Run from this place. Run from me.

Harry’s agonised gaze held his for several racing beats of Ash’s heart, then fell away and he nodded in understanding. His body slumped as Culham and Boyd dragged him out of the room, but he looked over his shoulder at the last moment, finding Ash’s eyes for a final desperate instant before Sir Arthur slammed the door shut between them.

The look of contempt he turned on Ash was excoriating. “Stand up.”

Shaking with fury and grief, Ash struggled upright. He didn’t reach for his prosthetic but balanced himself with one hand on the bedpost. Shame burned his cheeks. Not for the love he felt for Harry, but for the indignity of standing shivering before his father, half-naked and struggling to balance on his one remaining foot while he listened to Sir Arthur’s disgust and contempt spill from his spittle-flecked lips.

His father was apoplectic with rage, disgorging every venomous thought he’d ever harboured about his weak, unmanly, pansyish excuse for a son until he was reduced to a gasping, gaping silence.

“F-father — ”

“Youwill call me Sir Arthur. I claim no relationship between us.”