Dangerous desire unspoken

Arthur Windsor leaned against the carved stone archway on the second-floor landing, half-hidden in shadow, half-ashamed to be there at all. His dark eyes locked on the girl in the garden below,her, moving between trimmed hedges and summer blooms like she'd always belonged.

Becca.

The soft laugh she gave Albert sent a knot coiling in his chest. It wasn't the laughter that irked him, it was the ease. The trust. The casual way her hand brushed Albert's arm as he pointed out some dull plant she clearly didn't care about. She made it look like she belonged here. Like she fit

But she didn't.

She was nothing more than a guest, a temporary echo in the estate's long, silent halls. And yet, Arthur couldn't stop watching her. Couldn't stop memorizing the sway of her hips beneath that pale summer dress. Couldn't stop noticing the way her mouth curved at the corners when she was only half-smiling.

She was supposed to be irrelevant. Disposable.

Instead, she was the one thing he couldn't seem to ignore.

He didn't notice Albert approaching until he spoke.

"You shouldn't look at her like that."

Arthur stiffened. He didn't turn around. "Like what?"

Albert stepped into view, standing a few paces to his right. His voice was as flat as ever, but the undercurrent of tension was unmistakable. "Like she's something you want but hate yourself for wanting."

Arthur's jaw ticked.

"I was just watching the garden."

Albert scoffed, eyes narrowing. "No, you weren't."

Now Arthur turned. The brothers stared at each other for one tense, silent beat.

"She's not yours," Arthur said quietly, his voice colder than he meant.

Albert didn't blink. "Neither is she yours to destroy."

The words hung between them like smoke.

Arthur gave a dry, bitter smile and walked away, descending the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with something dangerously close to shame.

Outside, the garden was quiet. Clarice stood near the fountain, arms folded tightly across her chest. She hadn't meant to come out here, had meant to retreat to her room and force sleep over the unease building in her ribs, but her feet had led her here.

And of course, she wasn't alone.

Edward appeared from the path behind the ivy, hands tucked into his pockets like a boy who'd been caught sneaking candy. His eyes softened when he saw her.

"You shouldn't be out here alone."

"I needed air."

"I seem to find you every time you do."

Clarice gave him a glance, then looked away.

Edward didn't approach. "Are they bothering you? My sons?"

Clarice sighed. "They're boys trying to survive in a house that doesn't feel like home. I'm not the threat."

"No. You're not." His voice had changed, deeper now, less controlled.

She turned toward him slowly. "But you are, aren't you?"

Edward blinked. "Clarice…"

"No, let's not dance around it this time." She stepped closer, folding her arms again but tighter now, like she was holding herself together. "You've been… circling. Flirting. Making it hard for me to breathe. Why? Why now?"

He looked at her for a long moment, and then he exhaled, like the words had been waiting years to be spoken. "Because I'm tired of pretending that I didn't destroy everything I had just to end up empty. I cheated on Helena, yes. But not because I wanted passion or excitement or to chase something new."

Clarice's throat tightened. She said nothing.

Edward's voice broke slightly. "I cheated because she had already left me, long before she actually did. She was married to her work, to appearances, to status. She never wanted the mess of a family. And I… I was lonely. I failed Arthur and Albert. I didn't know how to be a father after that. So I left them to their silence."

Clarice finally looked at him, tears burning her eyes but refusing to fall. "So what? You think being with me somehow fixes that? That I can undo your guilt?"

"No." His answer was immediate, raw. "But I feel something with you I haven't felt in a long time. Something real. And I want to do it differently this time."

Clarice's chest rose and fell with a sharp inhale. "And what if I don't want to be your second chance?"

Edward stepped closer, and the intensity in his eyes unnerved her. "Then at least let me say I tried."

She stepped back.

He didn't follow.

Her voice trembled, not with fear but fury. "Your sons need you more than I ever will. And if you want to change anything, start there."

Edward watched her turn and walk away, her silhouette vanishing behind the hedges.

He didn't follow her.

Not this time.

Clarice didn't stop walking until she found herself near the library. Her heart was still racing. The walls of the house seemed too tight, the air thick with the weight of Edward's confession. She rubbed her arms as she opened the heavy double doors.

And froze.

Arthur sat in one of the winged chairs by the fire, glass in hand, staring at the hearth like it had personally offended him.

He didn't glance at her when she stepped in. "Come to give me another warning?"

Clarice narrowed her eyes. "Should I?"

He took a slow sip. "Your daughter's making quite a mess of things."

She closed the door behind her. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you."

That got his attention. He finally looked up, eyes shadowed, dark with emotion he didn't bother naming. "You think this is my fault?"

"I think you're used to being the most important person in every room." Clarice walked forward, slowly, calmly. "But now your father is looking at someone else. Your brother is laughing again. You don't know where you fit anymore."

Arthur's jaw clenched. "Don't pretend to understand me."

"I don't have to," she said simply. "I just see a boy trying too hard to stay angry because he's afraid of what happens if he lets go."

Arthur stood suddenly, drink forgotten. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're not the enemy."

He didn't move. Just stared.

Clarice added softly, "Whatever war you're still fighting, Arthur… you can stop. You're allowed to stop."

She left him in silence, closing the door gently behind her.

And for the first time in a long while… Arthur didn't know who he hated more,her, himself, or the quiet that stayed behind.

Albert sat on the edge of his bed, a book in his hand, though he hadn't turned a page in nearly an hour.

Then she walked in.

Becca.

Barefoot, hair down, wearing the softest silk pajamas that clung to her body like moonlight. She held a glass of water and a smile.

She talked. She rambled. About Evelyn, about dinner, about Theo's ridiculous joke earlier. About the quiet of the house. About how it sometimes felt like it was watching.

And Albert watched her.

Her knees pulled into the armchair. Her fingertips curling over the rim of the glass. Her laughter bubbling at nothing at all.

She didn't notice the silence he gave her wasn't absence. It was reverence.

He longed for her.

For her to stay. To never leave his room. His side. His life.

She yawned. Stood.

"I should go before I fall asleep in your chair."

His heart twisted.

She smiled. "Goodnight, Albert."

He whispered, "Goodnight."

She left.

And he stayed seated, breath shallow, chest hollow.

Because she had been there.

And he had let her go.