My Bratty Wife

Evan stood frozen, the blood draining from his face, Byron’s words about Brook echoing in the oppressive silence of the study. The name now sounded like a death knell.

Byron watched Evan’s reaction with a detached amusement, the faint, knowing curl still playing on his lips. He took another leisurely sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the crystal, a sound that seemed to mock Evan’s mounting terror. "You look surprised, Evan," Byron observed, his voice smooth as silk, yet carrying an undeniable edge of menace. "Did you truly believe your little spy could delve into my affairs without my knowledge? Did you think I wouldn’t have my own eyes on him?"

He placed his whiskey glass deliberately on the small table beside his chair. "And now that you know a fraction of the truth, do you think I’ll let you simply walk out of here unharmed?" Byron’s voice dropped, becoming a soft, dangerous purr. "To run back to the king and whisper your newfound suspicions?" He let out a short, dry laugh that held no humor. "No, Evan. That would be remarkably foolish of me."

Byron’s gaze hardened. He raised his voice slightly, not shouting, but with a tone that brooked no disobedience. "Elias! Bring him in."

The heavy oak door creaked open almost immediately, as if Elias had been waiting just outside, anticipating the command. The aide stepped in, not alone this time. He was dragging a figure, a man so broken and bloodied that Evan almost didn’t recognize him. With a grunt of effort, Elias hauled the barely conscious form into the room and unceremoniously threw him to the floor like a sack of unwanted grain.

The man groaned, a pitiful sound, and slowly, agonizingly, began to crawl. His fine clothes were torn and stained dark with blood and grime. One leg was bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken. His face was a mess of bruises and cuts. Yet, through the pain and delirium, a flicker of recognition, of desperate hope, ignited in his eyes as he saw Evan.

It was Brook. His aide.

Brook dragged himself across the expensive rug, leaving a faint smear in his wake, until he reached Evan’s feet. He clutched at Evan’s polished boot with a trembling, bloodied hand. "My... My Lord," Brook pleaded, his voice a hoarse, broken whisper, choked with pain and desperation. "Save me... please... he knows everything... save me..."

Evan was dumbstruck. He stared down at the wretched figure of his once-proud aide, then slowly, mechanically, turned his head to face Byron. The man who had been a quiet timid man, a pushover, Ryan’s "weakling brother," was now looking at him with a small, almost gentle smile that was far more terrifying than any overt display of rage. It was the smile of a cat that had finally cornered its mouse, a smile that promised suffering.