Chapter Eleven Samuel

Chapter Eleven

Samuel

S amuel stood next to Shan, staring up at the townhouse with wide eyes. It was even larger than the LeClaire home, even grander, from the slope of the gables to the decorative trim painted in contrasting shades of blue to the rest of the exterior. Stained glass filled the windows, shaped in the familiar scene of Aeravinian roses, and Samuel didn't even want to think how much that had cost when windows of regular glass would have served fine. And this was only the first of the Aberforth properties to be released to him.

It was still more than he had ever anticipated, and more than he could even understand. It was so much, and Samuel didn't know how to begin filling it.

It had been built by Abigail Aberforth's children, the first generation of the royal line, and maintained ever since, filled with a long lineage that Samuel could never live up to, a constant home until the death of Lord Nathaniel Aberforth and his children just over five and twenty years ago, when it had been closed up but not sold. Shuttered but not dismantled. Waiting for a new owner.

Samuel finally found his voice. "This is… mine?"

Shan's hand found his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it'll be a bit of an adjustment, but you'll have help."

That was a relief. She had already informed him that this would involve more than just running a home; there were accounts and estates and investments to keep track of, money flowing in and out, constantly growing and changing.

He might have been a bookkeeper, but this was a step beyond that. Especially with everything else that would be vying for his attention.

Squeezing Shan's hand again, he lifted his chin with a confidence he didn't truly feel. "Let's do this." He dashed up the stairs, grabbed a hold of the knocker on the door, and slammed it several times.

The door opened immediately, revealing a stern and stately man who was old enough to be Samuel's grandfather. That was, if his own ancestor wasn't a fresh-faced man in the prime of his life, despite being over a thousand years old.

His head hurt thinking about that, and he focused his attention back on the man. He was pale and wrinkled around the edges, but his clothes were impeccably pressed and his grey eyes kindly. He showed them in, then immediately dropped into a bow, bending low at the waist. "Lord Aberforth. It is my honor and privilege to welcome you to your family home."

Samuel almost didn't realize that the man was talking to him—he still wasn't used to being addressed by that title, by that name. He swallowed the urge to correct him, to beg him to call him by his given name, and stepped into the role that had been assigned to him. "It's good to meet you…" he trailed off, uncertain.

"You may call me Jacobs," the man supplied.

No title. Not sir, the polite way that nobles sneered down at new blood. Not even mister, the title given to commoners with no Blood Working potential. Despite the wage they earned and the security their positions afforded them, they were considered somehow even lesser. "I'm glad to meet you, Jacobs," Samuel said, kindly. "What is your position?"

Jacobs smiled, clearly relieved, and Samuel wondered what he had done to make that so. How cruel his former masters must have been that even a drop of kindness made such an impact.

"I am to be your secretary," Jacobs said. "And to help with the staff and household management while you adjust."

"Did you serve…" Samuel couldn't bring himself to say it, to really claim Nathaniel Aberforth as his father.

"Yes," Jacobs replied. "I did."

"Well," Samuel said, jumping off the cliff without even thinking. "I've heard that he was a harsh master. I don't intend to be the same."

It wasn't a plea. It was a promise.

Jacobs smiled. "As you say, my lord."

"Yes," Samuel shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat—a loan from Shan's brother until the rest of his wardrobe arrived. It was a little too tight around the shoulders, and far too flashy for him with its gold-trimmed lines. "I want to take a look around, but afterward I'd like to meet the staff. Do you think we could call them to the parlor in an hour's time?"

He hoped that would be enough space for them. Because of the short notice, there would only be what Shan called a skeleton staff—a couple of maids, a handful of kitchen workers, a housekeeper and Jacobs. Even that seemed like too much.

"Yes, we can." Jacobs hesitated. "Should I give you the tour?"

He glanced back at Shan, suddenly hesitant, but she nodded at him. "Yes, please."

She smiled, then stepped aside. "I'd like to speak to the housekeeper, if I may."

"Of course, my lady," Jacobs replied. If he was put off, he didn't show it. "She's in the kitchen, right down this hallway."

Shan nodded, turning away. Samuel watched her go, then turned to take in the Aberforth townhouse. While they had been talking, it had been easy to let his eyes go unfocused at the edges, to let himself ignore the opulence and the finery. But he had to learn to live with it, even if he could never allow himself to become comfortable with it.

He wanted to scream.

He didn't.

He was so tired already, but he couldn't be ungrateful. None of this was Jacobs' fault—he was just as much a victim of circumstance as Samuel was, if not more so. At least Samuel had the money, the prestige, the power. Jacobs had nothing, could never have anything, and it was all terribly unfair.

He plastered a fake smile on his face and followed Jacobs through the foyer, their footsteps echoing on the marble floor. Directly in front of them was a grand wooden staircase leading to the upper levels of the home, where Jacobs said the bedrooms and family spaces were. But before they explored that, he directed them to a sitting room on the left, a room that was larger than the one Samuel used to live in, outfitted with the kind of delicate, carefully carved furniture that would have cost a fortune to outfit. Chaise lounges with hand-embroidered designs, a low glass table, paintings and fine statues along the walls—hells, a grand piano in the corner.

Samuel buried his hands in the pocket of his jacket, hiding the way he was clenching his fists.

"Perfect for casual entertaining," Jacobs explained, then stepped past and into the first room on the right—a dining room with a table large enough to seat a dozen people, perhaps more. The walls were lined with portraits, and a quick glance at them told Samuel that he was looking at his family. It was a line of golden hair and pale faces, their cold eyes sharp and piercing.

How was he supposed to eat here, day in and day out?

He wanted to run from the room, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the judgemental faces of his ancestors, knowing that they all looked down upon him and found him unworthy.

Jacobs cleared his throat. "If… if it pleases you, my lord, this one here is Lord Nathaniel. Your father."

Samuel hesitantly approached the last one, looking up at the face of his father for the first time. He had been young when he had ascended, not as young as Shan or even Samuel, but still. His face was unlined, his shoulders strong, his eyes clear. But even in this there was a coldness to him. It was in the way his eyes bored into the viewer, in the frown on his lips, in the haughtiness of his bearing.

Lord Nathanial had been a cruel man, and Samuel had to look away.

Jacobs didn't push the matter—he just let Samuel lead them out of the room.

From there the opulence only got worse, and, bit by bit, Samuel grew cold and distant, smothering the rage that threatened deep inside. He couldn't let this touch him, not now, or else he would break.

By the time he met the staff and had settled in, the sun had set and evening was upon them. At Shan's request, the cook had sent up a plate of sandwiches and a pot to tea to the study, bypassing a formal dinner. The wine, she insisted, was just for her. It was exactly what he needed after the immensity of the day, and he could have kissed Shan for her thoughtfulness.

If he were being honest, he could almost kiss Shan in general. She was clever and capable and just alluring enough to make him forget she was a Blood Worker. But that was a thought he didn't want to contemplate at the moment.

She was sitting in one of the large, padded chairs, her shoes kicked off and her feet tucked under her skirts. Her hair had begun to fall out of its pins, hanging dark and heavy against her skin, and her cheeks had a rosy flush from the wine. It was the most relaxed he had seen her yet, the mask slipping to reveal the woman beneath.

A half-eaten sandwich was on the plate balanced on the armrest, and she had his ledgers spread across her lap. She was cozy and contented, and she looked like she belonged here—lady of the house, already running his household and keeping things in line.

Another thought he didn't want to contemplate. Could not contemplate. The memories of a mistake long past still haunted him, and he couldn't walk that path again.

Instead, he steered himself towards safer waters. "You know I have a secretary for that," he said, sipping his tea.

Shan scoffed. "As a bookkeeper, I thought you'd understand how important it is to double-check the work."

"I do," Samuel said. "And I was planning on doing that. But it's not your responsibility."

"I don't mind," Shan said, absently. "I like this kind of work. Books are simpler than people, and it's easy to find the truth in numbers. Besides, there is a lot to manage and you haven't been trained for this."

Like she had . He heard the unspoken words, felt them claw into his gut, not because they were sharp or harsh, but because they were simply true. "I'll learn."

"Yes, but I'd hate to see you bankrupt yourself before you have the chance to." She closed the ledgers, looking up with an easy grin. "Unless that's not the reason. Do you fear I'm going to sell the Aberforth secrets?"

It made him smile. "I wasn't before, but now that you bring it up…"

She laughed, standing to pour herself a fresh glass of wine. "Samuel, please. I want to earn the King's favor, not lose it. So long as he favors you, you're safe from me."

"Until you've earned your own place," Samuel said, "and then you'll have no need for me."

Shan shrugged, too casually. "Yes, but don't forget I like you. So, you'd better be careful you don't lose my favor."

"Ah, you do like me?" he said, weakly. He wasn't used to being liked, to having friends, to flirting. He might not have much experience in this area, but he knew that there was something here between them.

And as much as it pained him, he needed to squash it before it had a chance to grow.

"Unfortunately, yes," she replied, and from the almost wistful way she said it, he knew it was true. "It's a shame, you'd be much easier to manipulate if I hated you."

Her words hit him as hard as a slap across the face, reminding him that she was a Blood Worker. That no matter how much she claimed to be on his side, she still had her own agenda. "You'd rather that, then? A pawn to manipulate instead of an ally to trust?"

Her expression shuttered; the easy playfulness gone. "It's not that simple, Samuel."

Looking away, he rubbed his face. "Right. Forgive me."

Shan sipped her wine. "Did I mislead you at some point? You know that I have—"

"Schemes?" Samuel snapped. "Plans? Yes, I do. Thank you for your help today, but I can take it from here."

"Blood and steel, there is no need to be so dramatic."

"Good day, Shan." He stood, gesturing to the doorway. "You know the way out."

For a long moment she just stared at him, her eyes narrowed and her lips pulled into a frown. "You know what? Fine." She drained her glass, then slammed it back on the table. "If you have need of me, you know how to reach me. Goodnight, Samuel."

She snatched her shoes then walked out of the study, not even stopping to put them on. Her head was held high, her shoes dangling at her side, and she did not look back at him.

He remained standing until he heard her slip down the stairs, then collapsed onto his chair, burying his face in his hands. He hadn't meant to be so cold, and yet…

It was probably better this way, after all. Despite her smiles and her little kindnesses, he had to remember that she'd still use him in a heartbeat. And besides, he still had this awful power, and until he mastered it— if he could master it—he wouldn't be safe to be around. He could barely control it when he got angry; he didn't want to think about what could happen in a moment of passion.

What did happen in a moment of passion. The words still haunted him, even after all this time.

Kiss me .

Such a simple thing, and all Markus' choices had been taken away. In that moment, when Markus had turned to him with that glossy look in his eyes, Samuel realized that he was no better than his father—the nameless figure who had raped his mother and ruined her life.

He didn't need violence. He just needed his voice.

It didn't matter what he wanted—how badly he wanted—he was still a monster, and he could not let himself forget it.

And as Shan LeClaire stormed out of his home, he wrapped himself in the shroud of his loneliness. It was, after all, an old friend. The only one he had.