London, May 1885

When Henry entered the drawing room, his eyes immediately fell upon Sabrina, standing in the centre of the chamber. She was clad in her wedding gown—of all garments she might have chosen, she had donned that. Before he could question her intentions, she spoke first.

"Forgive me, Henry."

His brow furrowed, his confusion deepening as he noticed a small crimson stain on her side, steadily growing... and growing... prompting him to rush towards his wife.

Sabrina's eyes rolled upward as her body crumpled, collapsing right into Henry's fast arms.

"What have you done, Sabrina?!" he cried, his voice trembling with anguish and disbelief.

"She's bleeding, is she not?" came another voice, familiar and yet impossible.

Henry turned his head sharply, his breath catching at the sight of his brother, Andrew. The man was seated in a high-backed chair, water dripping from his damp hair onto his pallid grey face, which glistened with an unnatural green sheen, down his dark, sodden attire covered with brownish-green slime. His eyes were just as Henry remembered—deep set and devoid of emotion or life.

"What have you done?" Henry demanded, his voice strained.

"Me?" Andrew's lips curled into a mirthless smile. "I'm dead, brother. What have you done?"

Henry turned back to Sabrina, only to see that she had disappeared from his arms. Instead, a cold, blood-stained stone glowed faintly in his right hand. In desperation, he threw the thing away and frantically scanned the room. Near the windows he glimpsed movement—a figure draped in white and black.

Damon Gray stood there, cradling Sabrina's unconscious form in his clutches. His smile stretched unnaturally wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth, and Henry had to observe in horror as he lowered his mouth to Sabrina's neck and tore into her flesh with grisly relish.

"Release her!" Henry bellowed, lunging forward.

It only caused Damon to lift his head from his victim's wound, his bloodied mouth twisting in a hiss in response. At Henry's approach, the monster pursed his lips and, with unholy speed, darted towards the window. With a shattering crash, he leapt through the glass and fell to the ground below.

Henry cried out and scrambled to the windowsill, staring in dread as Damon landed effortlessly, his grotesque form sprouting additional pair of limbs. The abductor then scuttled toward the distant outline of Jamieson's house with a terrifying swiftness, never looking back.

"You lost me, Henry," Andrew's voice came again, soft yet haunting. He was standing beside Henry now, his presence chilly as the morning breeze in October. "And you will lose her, too. Spare yourself the agony and join me in the Thames. Remember—water is freedom."

Henry awoke with a start, the pale light of dawn creeping into the room. His body was drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged. For a moment, the terror of the dream lingered, and his eyes darted toward the bed across the chamber. From his vantage point, unobstructed by the connecting door yet to be installed, he could see Sabrina's sleeping form.

Truth be told, Henry kept putting off ordering the new door from the woodworker, supplying excuse after excuse for Sabrina's countless inquiries. Selfish as it may be, he found it infinitely more satisfying to observe his wife's sleeping form with no obstacles in sight. Grasping for his spectacles, Henry adjusted them on his nose and ventured to ascertain that she was indeed all well. Fortunately, Sabrina was sleeping serenely, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of slumber.

Sighing with relief, he reclined anew, knowing that the sleep would not claim him anytime soon. Instead, his thoughts drifted to his latest nightmare—they had grown more vivid and intense ever since Sabrina had refused him again. He could only surmise that she had settled her affections on her villainous lover; what else could explain the pain she continued to inflict upon him?

Apropos, it wasn't long before Mr. Gray materialised at Westhill for his alarmingly frequent calls, and Sabrina, though outwardly mindful of propriety, seemed to bask in the attentions of that lecherous, earringed skunk in and out of the bedroom—or so the duke believed. Whenever Henry's and Damon's gaze met, the scorned husband could almost hear the mocking refrain emanating from the dastardly knave's eyes—I'm the man your wife prefers and I fuck her well in return—what will you do about it, Your Grace?

Well, the thought of tearing that Hades' hound limb from limb often tempted him, but to Henry's almost unbearable dismay, it seemed that even his household staff favoured the blackguard over their own master with how warmly they treated that idiot, making the duke a cuckold under his own roof, for God's sake! And when happened to witness that black menace's parting embrace with Sabrina, their arms entwined as though in some melodramatic tableau...

...he felt yet another pang somewhere deep in his chest, yet swallowed the rising bile and forced himself back to his endless duties. But what, truly, had he expected? Such risks were inherent in their arrangement; that his wife would find appeal in someone else—he had known that from the start and had to remind himself of it countless times. Ergo, they joined the circle of aristocratic couples who led separate intimate lives. Forbidding the black leech to creep into his house would not solve a fig, because Sabrina would find another means of meeting her lover behind his back, of that Henry was certain.

Still, why did it continually pain and embitter him so?

Though, to be fair, his wife, armed with the daggers of a thousand pains, had also apologised, begging him countless times for a moment to discuss what had happened at the spa, her dark eyes pleading. Yet, Henry always excused himself using the I cannot discuss us right now, Sabrina. It will have to wait. phrases. After all, his marriage was not his sole responsibility, and he was more than ever grateful for it, as his duties allowed him to cool down and find the firm ground beneath his feet.

That day, Sabrina had taken a stroll with Damon, their arms linked as they wandered the garden paths, good humour accompanying them as he was telling her his family anecdotes. He was the only one she could consider a friend in this alien world of English aristocracy, the one who kept reassuring her that all would be well, one way or another. Though, his eyes never truly shed their predatory glint whenever he looked at her.

"There is a rumour that my grandfather and his dear friend resided in a quadruple at Thornton Hall, the London residence of the Duke of Northumberland," Damon said with a smirk. "Hence, my father is often mistaken for the twins' father, and, when the late Marquess of Rycroft still drew breath, he was sometimes thought to be Jason's and mine."

"I find that quite scandalous," Sabrina replied with a grin.

Damon nodded, his expression one of amused mischief. "Improbable, perhaps, but who can say? If my grandfather was even half the devil I am, it is entirely possible he engaged in some rather questionable exploits."

The mention of questionable exploits immediately drew Sabrina's thoughts to the Mrs. Gray. He's a dangerous man with a dark past, likely responsible for his wife's disappearance, Henry's words echoed in her mind, and the duchess had never truly dismissed them.

"What of your wife?" Sabrina asked, steering the conversation into deeper waters. "She must have been quite remarkable woman for you to have married her so young." She noticed Damon's step falter slightly and pressed on. "Speaking of rumors, I've heard whispers suggesting that you may bear some responsibility for her being wayward at present."

Damon did not regard her eyes for a quiet minute. At last, he sighed and admitted, "I could very well be the one responsible." His voice was subdued as he raised his eyes to meet hers. "It pains me to say it, but... I hurt her deeply."

There was an unmistakable sadness etched across his face, and Sabrina couldn't stop herself from asking, "Did you betray her trust, Damon?"

Or did you kill her? The question remained unspoken on her lips, a temptation almost too great to resist.

He shook his head. "No. If only it were as simple as that... I wish I could say my sin was mere infidelity... but rest easy, Sabrina—I have learned my lesson and, I hope, emerged a better man for it. Yet my wife's disappearance troubles me, most of all for the sake of our children. They ask for her constantly, and I have no answers to give them."

His response, rather than calming her, only deepened her unease. Sabrina's brows furrowed as she followed his lead, increasingly certain her reprobate lover was not being entirely honest with her. Alas, she had harboured suspicions for some time now, and it was high time she confronted the passivity with the uncomfortable truth: she had allowed Damon to wield far too much power over her emotions and choices.

Indeed, it was high time Sabrina quit accepting the attentions she felt she was worthy of, as they had served little purpose beyond indulging her baser needs. Or in simpler terms, she enjoyed his sex, but perhaps not enough to risk her welfare—or her soul—any further.

"And how fare your children? When might I have the pleasure of meeting them?" Sabrina asked with casual curiosity, merely to prod him in her search for information—after all, the first seeds of mistrust had been planted by this fine gentleman himself.

"When I said you should behold them, it was during the height of our passion," Damon said with a knowing smirk. "You need never meet them... unless, of course, you foresee the possibility of us being together one day. By together, I do indeed mean as husband and wife."

His golden eyes burned with anticipation as they searched her face, awaiting her reply. Sabrina, however, could only manage a faint smile, concealing the sudden discomfort his remark stirred within her. Reasonably so, as she presently grew more certain in whether her romantic feelings for Damon were true in their form, or merely a thick veil obscuring her inner struggles.

Being inclined towards the latter, it kindled a restless desire to tear away that old, dusty rag at last, and confront the ugly reality beneath.

If Sabrina were to be entirely honest with herself—truly a rare endeavour—she would have to admit that she had been fleeing from her problems rather than facing them. Or she would break a heart, an act born of her plaguing insecurities and wavering resolve.

After her rejection of Henry during their ill-fated spa interlude, her husband had followed her wishes to the letter. Betraying no emotion on his face, meeting her gaze only when absolutely necessary, he turned into a very polite—coldly polite—husband who never knew when the new connecting door would be installed, nor found time for discussions of substance, such as the reasons for her rejection.

Not that Sabrina dared to unburden herself entirely at once, but she began to wonder if Henry might be willing to draw a thick line under the past and attempt a new beginning. An audacious hope, to be sure, but she was growing desperate as the guilt gnawed at her relentlessly, day and night.

Damon, by contrast, offered simplicity and ease, their relationship had been thus far unencumbered and his growing familiarity with her household—even his open visits to Westhill—came without her bidding. But in turning her husband away, she also put a halt to her intimacy with Damon... and the sudden mention of marriage, with its unspoken implication of divorce from Henry, struck her like a thunderclap. The idea intimidated her, even as it sent shivers of dread coursing through her conscience, after everything she had been through with her infernal husband, not to mention the duke's vehement refusal to entertain such a notion.

Henry deserved the truth.

And most importantly, she could not cease being drawn to Henry, even though it seemed their marriage remained at best an impasse. This strange heaviness she felt around her heart, which influenced her thoughts to be of a more melancholic nature, was indeed quite a new feeling to her.

There must have been a way to explain, to apologise, to ensure that her memories of the past remained cemented under the covers of reason; after all, she had hurt them both infinitely, but perhaps Henry needed more time to—

"Or is your affection tied to whatever privileges the Grantchester title affords you?" Damon cut sharply, his words derailing her train of thought. He sighed almost at once, shaking his head as her expression darkened with a deepening frown. "Of course not. You are a self-sufficient woman, blessed with a fortune of your own. Forgive me, Sabrina, it is my jealousy speaking, nothing more. I have little to offer you beyond my heart, I fear."

Her brows knitted together further as she mused bitterly, If only he knew that at present, I cannot even cobble together a full fucking dollar... or pound.

"You know full well that I am fond of you," she began softly, withdrawing her hand from his and stepping toward the gnarled willow nearby. Its ancient branches swayed faintly, rustling in harmony with the rhythm of the summer breeze. "But I cannot seek a divorce on a mere whim, Damon—not when you yourself remain married."

Damon followed her to the tree. Leaning close, he murmured conspiratorially into her ear, "I would not."

"For the next three years, you would," she replied, her tone resolute, her eyes searching his face for any sign of hesitation. Yet she found none—only the arch of his brows, betraying his surprise that she should know of the common law regarding the presumption of death in England.

Yes, she had obtained and pored over A Guide to English Law for Ladies—too late to salvage the matter of her fortune, but perhaps just in time to realise the implications of divorce as her curiosity nudged her to do so in spite of Henry's adamant refusal. Had she secured the law book before her indulgence in A Treatise on English Propriety and Decorum, she might well have ended up in a much smaller pickle.

Ah, well, Sabrina had long since resigned herself to being something of a pathetic mess, but at least her knowledge now served to goad Damon into revealing the true intentions behind his words.

His eyes narrowed, the faintest glint of irritation flashing across his face. "I could pull some strings."

"You are not above the law, Damon Gray," she opposed firmly.

He scoffed, the sound mingling with a weary sigh. "Just consider the possibility, Sabrina. If you wish it, I shall speak to my children of you. Should it be their desire to meet you, we may arrange the occasion. But for now, pray let us continue our stroll; this place is altogether too noisy for my liking."

Once they had moved further from the tree, Damon turned abruptly and pulled Sabrina into his arms. "We should hide beneath your sheets, darling," he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her neck. "Or, if you prefer, you might come to Jamieson's. It has been far too long since I had the pleasure of making love to you as only you deserve."

"I told you I do not wish to," she replied, her tone sharper than intended. "Besides, you overstep by visiting me here so frequently."

He groaned in displeasure, his grip tightening briefly before releasing her. "Have I done something to offend you?"

"No," Sabrina said curtly, stepping back from his embrace. "I have caused an unspeakable pain, but the matter does not concern you, and I have no desire to elaborate."

Damon shook his head, a flicker of frustration evident in his expression, but he said nothing more. He followed her in silence for a time, until they reached the point where their paths diverged. Sabrina watched as he took his leave, his figure as elegant as ever, heading toward Jamieson's house.

As she stood there, her thoughts wandered to the last time she had visited that very house—the knowledge she had gleaned on that occasion had since proven to serve a far greater purpose—though she had been wholly unaware of it at the time.