With a snarl, he wrenched James back.
He looked at James, hard and searching, as if trying to reconcile what stood in front of him with what he believed should be there.
“You,” he said at last.
Low. Disbelieving.
“When I came here, you were a hall boy who did not know his place.”
His grip tightened.
“Now look at you.”
The shape of the argument was clear to Aoife before he even finished it.
The same one he’d used on her.
I made you.
But that wasn’t what he’d done.
He hadn’t made anything.
He had stripped them down. Forced them into shapes that pleased him against their will.
He saw obedience and called it loyalty.
Saw performance and called it truth.
And never, not once, had he wondered what remained underneath.
“I will make you butler,” Halverton said in a rush; the words sounded desperate to her ears. Several of the staff gasped. James’ eyes went wide. Mr Lanyon muttered something she couldn’t make out.
James turned to Aoife.
“Do not look at her,” Halverton snapped suddenly. “She cannot do anything for you. I know you have ambitions. Stay on as butler; you can hire your own staff.”
Aoife could see the calculation on James’ face; he was tempted by the offer.
The room waited for his answer. Finally, James shook his head.
“I think I’ll take my chances with Miss Aoife.”
“You do not walk away from me.”
James’ jaw tightened. “I think I just did.”
He turned towards her. Halverton lunged. The blow landed hard against the back of James’ head. He staggered. The impact carried: a dull, sickening thud that seemed to hang in the air.
Aoife surged forward. Wiren was faster.
He stepped in and caught Halverton’s wrist mid-swing. His grip was iron.
“That’s enough,” his voice filled the hall.
For a moment, Halverton stared at him.
Disbelief written across his face.
