Finn
He was in the lion's den.
Theron pinned him against the door, his body a wall of heat and muscle. The scent of whiskey and a raw, masculine musk was suffocating.
The great war hero, the cold, controlled Duke of Blackwood, was completely and utterly dismantled. By him.
"Peregrine…," Theron hissed against his lips.
The kiss this time wasn't a punishment. It was a surrender. Theron's mouth was rough, needy, his lips crashing against Finn's with hunger.
His hands were everywhere, tangling in Finn's hair, gripping his waist, trying to pull him closer, trying to merge their bodies into one.
It was torture.
Finn let his body go limp, playing the part. He let his head fall back against the door, eyes fluttering shut.
Every touch was a violation. Every ragged breath the Duke took against his skin made him want to throw up. He focused on the end goal. He pictured Daniel's face. He pictured Elsie's hollow eyes. He endured.
Theron pulled back, his chest heaving, his forehead resting against Finn's. He was completely unguarded.
Finn could feel the hard proof of the Duke's arousal pressing against his thigh. The physical evidence of the his weakness.
"This is madness," Theron breathed. "The scandal… My God, the ruin…"
Finn's body, which had been soft and yielding, went rigid. The game was over.
He placed his hands flat on the Duke's chest and shoved firmly. Theron stumbled back, confusion clouding his eyes.
Finn calmly smoothed down the front of his shirt. He looked at the Duke, who was watching him, a frown creasing his brow.
Finn let a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. "Scandal?"
Theron stared, his eyes narrowing. "What?"
Finn took a step forward, his exaggerated limp gone. He was no longer the fragile scholar. "I said, you ain't got no idea what scandal is, Your Grace." He practically spat the title. "But you're about to find out."
He stopped a few feet from the Duke, enjoying the look of baffled horror on his face.
"My name isn't Peregrine Vale," he snarled. "It's Finn Sullivan."
"You killed my brother."
* * *
Theron
The world tilted. The air in the room became thick, unbreathable. Theron stared, his mind refusing to process what his eyes and ears were telling him.
The man in front of him looked the same, but he was a stranger.
The scholarly posture was gone, replaced by the coiled stance of a street fighter. The gentle light in his eyes was gone, replaced by a hard contempt.
And the voice…
The smooth, cultured tones of Peregrine Vale were gone, replaced by a rough, guttural accent.
"What…?"
Theron's brain was short-circuiting, trying and failing to reconcile the gentle tutor who had read stories to his nephew with this hostile man who looked at him with pure, unadulterated hatred.
Finn–not Peregrine–laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound.
"What's the matter, Your Grace? Cat got your tongue?" He circled him. "You liked it better when I was talkin' all posh, eh? When I was your pretty little scholar?"
Every word was a blow. The seduction. The vulnerability Theron had dared to show. The kiss in the library. The shameful act that had just happened. It was all a lie. A performance.
The man's a fraud, Your Grace…
A curious oversight for a supposed scholar…
They had tried to warn him. His most loyal, steadfast staff had seen the cracks, the inconsistencies, the lies he had refused to see. And what had he done? He had shut them down. He'd chosen the pretty lies of an imposter instead.
"You've been played, Duke," Finn sneered. "Every word, every touch. Every look I gave you. All a lie to get me right 'ere. In your room. In your trust. In your fuckin' bed."
He stopped and stood directly in front of Theron again. His beautiful face was a mask of cold fury.
"I have written some letters," he said, his tone conversational, which was somehow worse. "Addressed to Sir Henry Langley, the journalist. Describin' your… inclinations. How you took advantage of me."
Theron felt the blood drain from his face. He wasn't just a sinner. He was a goddamn fool.
"And your money," Finn continued, his cruel smile widening. "It's amazin' what you can learn by listenin' to the servants. You're drownin' in debt, aren't you? One good scandal, a run on your creditors… and this big, fancy 'ouse comes tumblin' down."
Theron was paralyzed.
"Why?" The word was a whisper.
Finn's smile vanished. His face went cold. "You really don't remember any of 'em, do you? The lads you sent to die. They were just numbers on a page to you."
He stepped in close, his face inches from Theron's.
"Daniel Sullivan was my brother," he said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal hiss. "You sent him on a suicide charge to take a ridge you didn't even need. You sent him to die in the mud so you could get another medal pinned to your fuckin' chest."
Theron saw it. A flash of memory. A desperate order given in the heat of a losing battle.
He stumbled back, hitting the edge of a table.
"He died believin' you were a hero. He died for your glory," Finn snarled. "I'm going to make you watch as I take every last thing you have left. The title. The house. You're going to know it was Daniel Sullivan's brother who burned your world to the ground."