CHAPTER 263: CHAPTER 263: TREVOR’S TRUE NATURE (1)

Trevor slumped back against the couch, chest heaving, the last shudder of release ebbing from his body. His hand was still tangled in the silk tie, knuckles white around it, though the fight had already gone out of both of them. Lucas lay sprawled across him, boneless and trembling, his breath coming in ragged pulls against Trevor’s throat.

For a long moment neither spoke, the only sound the stuttered rhythm of lungs trying to catch up and the muted flicker of the forgotten movie still playing in the background.

Trevor loosened his grip at last, letting the tie slip slack between his fingers. He didn’t free Lucas immediately, though, his palm rested over the delicate bones of his wrist, thumb smoothing once over skin rubbed faintly red from restraint.

"You really don’t know when to stop pushing," Trevor muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. The edge was dulled, softened by exhaustion, by satisfaction, and by the weight of the omega curled up in his lap as if he belonged there.

Lucas huffed a laugh, weak but unrepentant, shifting enough to lift his head. His hair clung damp to his temples, eyes still glazed with the aftershocks of pleasure. "And you don’t know how to stop proving me right."

Trevor tipped his head back against the cushions, golden light from the screen casting harsh angles over his face. He should’ve been furious, he always claimed to hate losing control, but instead his hand slid up, cupping the back of Lucas’s neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touched.

"Next time," Trevor said quietly, "I’m not stopping until you beg."

Lucas’s mouth curved, faint but daring even in exhaustion. "Who says I won’t?"

Trevor laughed then, low, dark, and satisfied, and kissed him, sealing the promise in the quiet after the storm.

—

Steam curled against the mirror, the bathroom thick with heat and the faint scent of soap. Lucas had sunk low in the tub, shoulders just breaking the surface, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. The water had gone lukewarm long ago, but he hadn’t moved, letting it cradle him, muscles too loose and heavy to argue.

Trevor leaned against the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled and tie discarded, still looking every inch the lord despite the hour. He bent, pressing a kiss to Lucas’s temple, lips lingering there as if reluctant to let go.

"You’ll wrinkle if you stay in any longer," Trevor murmured, his voice softer than the words themselves. His hand brushed damp hair from Lucas’s brow, thumb ghosting across his skin. "But I can’t let you soak here all night. I have to deal with the staff."

Lucas’s eyes opened slowly, dark and sharp despite the lazy heaviness in his limbs. "The staff," he repeated, his tone flat, like he was already weary of where this conversation was going.

Trevor’s jaw ticked once. "Windstone’s report came in. He says that the old butler is the prime suspect, with paperwork gone missing and a servant asking the wrong questions about you. I want to deal with him myself."

"Alright, just don’t make a mess; Windstone hates that."

Trevor’s mouth curved at Lucas’s dry warning, but the gleam in his eyes was anything but amused. "Windstone can manage the cleanup," he said, straightening. He tugged his sleeves back into place, the softness of earlier fading under the weight of something colder. "I don’t intend to leave him much to clean."

He rose, adjusting the line of his shirt until it looked decent again, casual elegance weaponized into armor. Lucas watched him with half-lidded eyes, too drained to follow but not too far gone to notice the difference in him, the shift from lover to Grand Duke, from man to executioner.

"You really are going to do it," Lucas said after a beat, voice rough from steam and exhaustion. "Drag an old man down to the cellar and make him choke on his confessions."

Trevor’s gaze flicked back toward him, violet eyes sharp in the dim bathroom light. "He let someone else’s orders come before mine. He put you at risk. He forfeited the luxury of being treated like an old man."

Lucas tilted his head against the porcelain edge, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "And here I thought you were the rational one."

"I am," Trevor replied simply, buttoning his cuff with deliberate precision. "That’s why I’m not going to lose my temper when I see him. I’m going to take my time."

He leaned down once more, pressing a final kiss to Lucas’s damp hair. It was brief but steady, a quiet tether before he pulled away. "Stay here. Sleep if you can. When I come back, this house will be ours again."

And then he was gone, his steps calm as he left the steam and warmth behind for the cold, silent corridors below, where Windstone was already waiting with the first of the staff dragged down into their prison, the air thick with anticipation of what was about to be broken open.

—

The cellar had sterile white walls, reinforced steel doors, and cameras tucked seamlessly into corners. Fluorescent light hummed above, steady and merciless, stripping shadows away until there was nothing to hide behind.

Alan Moore sat cuffed to the table in the center of the room, posture still firmly straight despite the restraints. His butler’s coat was gone, replaced by plain grey, but he wore the absence like a badge, as if dignity alone could outlast what was coming.

Trevor stepped through the door without announcement. The lock clicked shut behind him, and Windstone remained by the wall, hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable. The Grand Duke circled the table first, slippers silent against the floor, his eyes dragging slowly over the man who had served his house for decades.

"Alan Moore," Trevor said at last, voice calm, conversational even. "Forty years in service. Twelve of those under my family name. Trusted enough to handle finances, staff schedules, and even guest lists. You must have thought yourself untouchable."

Alan’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Trevor dragged the chair out and sat across from him, elbows braced on the table. He let the silence stretch, violet eyes fixed without blinking. When he spoke again, it was quieter. "You told me this morning that Cardinal Benedict’s word carried weight here."

Alan’s mouth twitched. "I don’t know what you think you’ve found, but..."

Trevor didn’t sigh, didn’t roll his eyes. He simply let go of the leash.

The air thickened. A ripple of pheromones slid outward, slow at first, like smoke creeping into every corner. Then sharper. The sterile room suddenly carried the metallic tang of blood, the low burn of ozone before a storm. Alan’s throat worked around a swallow he couldn’t control, his body instinctively recognizing the dominance pressing down on him.

Trevor leaned forward slightly, the motion subtle, but the weight in the room doubled. His pheromones coiled like invisible wires, tightening around Alan’s chest, making breath feel like borrowed air.

"You feel it?" Trevor asked softly, almost kindly. "That’s the difference between rumor and reality. Between serving a house and standing in front of its head."

Alan’s jaw clenched, sweat already beading along his temple. "This... this is illegal. You can’t..."

Trevor’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. "Illegal?" His voice didn’t rise, but the pheromones spiked, crushing down harder, forcing Alan to his knees metaphorically, if not yet physically. "Jason, the other friend of Benedict, said the same thing. Just before he bled out every orifice in his body."