Page 108 of Bound By the Duke
I miss you. I need you. I am nothing without you.
Percival pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was losing himself.
Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out. Smooth. Mocking. Infuriating. It cut through the thick silence like a blade. “You might want to get a hold of yourself, Whitmore.”
Percival didn’t bother raising his head. His hands were pressed against his temples as he muttered, “I want to be alone.”
That earned him a soft chuckle. Then, footsteps crossed the room, bold and careless.
“When,” the voice drawled, “have you ever known me to care about that?”
Percival finally looked up at his friend.
Maxwell Turney, the Duke of Larcher, looked charming as ever, his coat unbuttoned, his smile infuriatingly playful. He leaned casually against the desk as though it were his own.
“You look terrible,” he remarked cheerfully, his eyes flicking over his best friend. “Like a man wrestling with his demons and losing dreadfully.”
Percival’s jaw clenched. He reached for the quill on his desk and opened a ledger as if the inked lines could shield him. “Go home, Maxwell.”
But Maxwell didn’t move. Instead, he cocked his head, his grin softening into a sly smile. “What—or, should I say, who—is making the great Duke of Whitmore lose his focus like this?”
Blue eyes met green ones.
Percival kept his mask fixed in place, but his friend knew him too well.
“Oh.” Maxwell chuckled low. “So it is about her.” He straightened before he began pacing leisurely around the study. “The duchess. I noticed she wasn’t here. When I arrived, I asked for both of you, and the servants told me that she had left. ‘For a while,’ they said.” He paused deliberately, watching Percival’s shoulders tense. “Imagine my surprise.”
She had left.
The words landed like a knife to the gut.
The pain lingered for a while, because hearing those words forced him to confront reality. That Aurelia was truly gone. And with her, the fragile light that brightened his days.
Percival said nothing. He dipped his quill in ink, pretending to focus, though the page blurred before him.
Maxwell’s smile faltered. “What happened?”
No answer. Only the faint scrape of quill against paper.
Even the sound seemed forced.
He sighed before coming to stand directly across from Percival. “You are not as unreadable as you think, old friend.” He placedhis hands on the desk. “You are walking around this estate like a ghost, scaring your servants half to death, and meanwhile, your wife is nowhere to be found.”
Still no answer.
“What about Lottie?” Maxwell pressed.
Percival’s quill froze at the mention of his daughter.
“I saw her when I arrived,” Maxwell continued, his voice somber now. “She came running toward me, nearly in tears. She asked for the duchess, and then she asked for you.”
Percival’s grip on the quill tightened until the shaft bent.
“What is happening here, Percival? You are colder than I have ever seen you. Lottie is desperate for the duchess. You are avoiding everyone. You think this is strength? You think this is control?”
At this point, Percival dropped his quill. His chest rose and fell slowly before he swallowed hard. “I will speak to my daughter.” He forced his voice to remain calm and steady.
And then he fell silent again.
