Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

“ F ocus, Westgrave!” one of the men on the sidelines shouted.

The Duke of Westgrave had not been at Devil’s Draw for weeks—months, even. It was evident in the way his followers hooted and cheered on their favorite fighter when he entered the gambling hell.

The air in the space seemed thick and hazy with a mix of brandy, sweat, and smoke. The crowd was restless, itching to see a fight.

The yelling turned into aggravated arguments and then into harsh whispers as Oliver squared off against his opponent. He had meant to be there, to stifle an urge and quieten the growing noise in his head.

The noise included flashes of Alexandra’s face. Her voice whenever she evaded him. The music that haunted him in his sleep.

Oliver cracked his bare knuckles. His jaw was tense, mirroring the knot in his stomach. He needed to regain control of his life and his emotions. That was what he intended to do as he narrowed his eyes at his opponent.

The beginning of the match was easy enough. Straightforward. He landed a quick succession of punches on his opponent’s face. The man’s cheek reddened easily.

It should have been a quick match.

Suddenly, the memory of his kiss with Alexandra flashed in his mind, unbidden. He remembered how sweet her lips were, how fiery she was. She might seem in control, but when he unraveled her, there was passion. Then, she was gone again—mentally and emotionally—escaping into God knew where.

“Watch out!” he heard someone in the crowd shout, but he was too slow this time.

A punch landed squarely on his ribs, jolting him back to the moment. He grunted, clutching his side.

“Focus, Westgrave!” people shouted at him.

He dodged the next punch and delivered a jab to the ribs in return.

The crowd cheered, happy to see his mind back in the match. Unlike with other matches, Oliver felt drained quickly, his breath coming in harsh gasps. It was not just from the exertion but also from his inner turmoil.

He knew it all along. He was falling apart.

“I’ve had enough,” he growled, and with a final hook, he ended the match.

His opponent stumbled back, and soon he felt the referee raise his hand to declare his victory. He staggered a little, feeling dizzy. His side also throbbed from the punch he received while he was distracted.

This time, he could not savor his victory.

He realized that he had been missing something.

Or rather, someone.

The townhouse was silent when Oliver arrived. There were no sounds of a piano, and that somehow worsened his grief.

He had won the match, but he felt empty. His knuckles felt raw, and his face stung with a faint bruise he hadn’t anticipated.

I must be growing old .

He chuckled bitterly at the thought.

He headed straight to his study so he could pour himself a drink before going to sleep. His movements were careful, as everything ached. It didn’t use to before.

He remembered all the celebrations that used to follow his victories—more gambling, more drinking. He had not felt alone like he did tonight, but he hoped that the morning light would erase the foolishness of the boxing match.

Perhaps it was time to change.

He recalled Alexandra saying that some people could not afford to, but he’d show her.

As he climbed up the stairs, candlelight spilled into the hallway from the doorway to Alexandra’s room.

She was awake.

“Your Grace?”

She was awake, yes, but not playing her music. He paused, his hand clutching the banister.

His instincts told him to move past her room. After all, she was the reason why he wanted to forget through pain. Through physical violence—one that could soothe the emotional one inside of him. Still, he found himself rooted to the spot, staring at the beautiful figure before him.

Alexandra closed the distance between them quickly, her eyes widening at the sight of him. The dregs of sleep that clung to her were gone—if she had ever slept.

“Good Lord! What ever happened to you?” she asked, a curious mix of alarm and anger lacing her voice.

“It’s nothing, Duchess,” he replied, attempting a nonchalant tone.

He did not want to talk to her—not tonight. He didn’t want to explain why he ended up back in Devil’s Draw.

“Go back to sleep,” he told her.

And because she was Alexandra Audley, she would not be easily dismissed. She wanted to be there, the stubborn wench.

“Nothing? You’re bleeding!” she exclaimed, concern and exasperation etched into her features. Her hands hovered over his face. “Come into my room. Now.”

Oliver was too exhausted to argue. He obeyed his wife, even though he wanted to retreat into himself.

She led him inside, her smaller figure somehow filling the quiet room. Her gentle hands guided him to sit near the lamp.

In mere moments, she had a wet cloth ready and was dabbing the cuts on his face. She was gentle yet efficient—a pianist and a healer.

For a moment, Oliver let himself close his eyes and simply feel her soft, cautious touches. It felt good to be taken care of, although his pride smarted at the thought of being weak or vulnerable. He rarely let himself feel like this.

“There’s no need to fuss,” he murmured, his voice low.

“Because you’re the great Duke of Westgrave? Well, I certainly need to fuss, since you don’t seem capable of taking care of yourself.”

Oliver was surprised by the genuine concern in her voice, subtly disguised by irritation. She cleaned his wounds with care and precision, as if she had been doing it her whole lifetime.

“What drove you to this? Your face is marred with bruises, but your side looks even worse.”

“Thanks very much, I hadn’t noticed,” he said drily, unable to deny the truth in her words.

“You returned to Devil’s Draw, didn’t you? Why?”

“Boxing clears my head. It gives me focus,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the pain and his pent-up emotions.

“Why did you need to focus?” she whispered, her eyes fixed on him. “Is something distracting you?”

Oliver was caught off guard by how direct she was. He straightened his back, wincing and slightly moving away from her. Her hand was now hovering over the bruise on the side of his torso, where the red hue was already turning purple.

Alexandra’s gaze softened at his silence. Her hand trembled as she pressed the cloth to his side. She had more questions to ask him, he could see that, but nothing came out of her lips.

“I know it may seem contrary to what you’ve heard about me, Duchess, but I like a sense of control in my life. Boxing at Devil’s Draw helps with it.”

“And you feel like you’re losing control now? Is that why you went there tonight?” she asked softly, bowing her head even as she continued to gently tend to his wounds.

Their eyes met then, and Oliver felt a shiver run through him—through each part of him she tended to.

His eyes darkened. The usually composed Duke of Westgrave was nowhere to be seen; in his place stood a man at the edge of his control.

He exhaled sharply, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

“Do you want to know why I ended up at Devil’s Draw tonight?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. “It wasn’t simply about the need for control, though I told myself that it was. It was because of you.”

Alexandra blinked, taken aback by his admission. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She only stared at him, searching his face, her fingers curling into the fabric of her night robe.

“You are driving me to madness, Alexandra,” he continued, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. The touch was deceptively soft, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. “I see you, and I lose every bit of sense I possess. I have never wanted anything—anyone—this badly. And it is making me lose my control.”

Alexandra drew in a shaky breath. “You… you’re losing control… because of me?” she whispered.

“Is it so difficult to believe?” His eyes searched hers, his grip tightening on her waist in case she might slip away. “I have worked so hard to become the master of my own desires, Alexandra. But with you—” He paused, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “With you, I feel like I’m teetering on the edge.”

His words hung in the air between them, laden with unspoken need.

Alexandra raised her hand, gently pressing her palm against his chest. Oliver knew she could feel his rapid heartbeat beneath her fingers.

“I… I feel it too,” she admitted, before swallowing. “Why should we fight it at all if we both feel this way?”

Oliver let out a low, humorless laugh. He rose to his feet and stepped closer to her, crowding her against the table, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck.

He leaned down, his lips inches away from hers. “Because once I have you, I will not hold back,” he murmured roughly. “And I will ruin you in ways you can’t even imagine.”

“And what if I want to be ruined?” she whispered back, her eyes searching his.

A growl rumbled in his chest, and before she could say another word, his lips crashed against hers.