Chapter 70: Protection
Chapter 69
The hum of machines filled the office. Dozens of monitors lined the wall, each flickering with grainy CCTV footage, transport logs, and security feeds pulled from across the city. This was not an ordinary office—it was a command center dressed in oak and steel. The glow of screens washed across the broad frame of Duke Richard Roderick, his shadow stretching long against the polished floor.
On the desk before him lay a printed still frame: a bus station camera. The quality was poor—washed out, pixelated—but it was enough. A slim figure hunched in a secondhand coat, bad haircut unevenly hacked short. The boy’s head was bowed, shoulders tucked in as though the world itself might swallow him whole.
Richard did not sit. He never sat. He stood like a soldier awaiting orders, though he was the only one who gave them here. His cropped hair gleamed under the harsh fluorescents, and his uniform—simple black fatigues, insignia stripped down to bare essentials—smelled faintly of oil and iron.
"How long ago?" His voice rolled low, calm but edged, like a knife kept sharp.
"A year and three months, sir," said the aide, a nervous man in a tailored suit. "That’s the last verified sighting. Bus terminal footage. We only secured access last week—official red tape delayed—"
Richard’s hand flattened over the photo, cutting him off. The scarred knuckles pressed down until the paper crinkled.
"Good," he said. "Trace it. Every bus that departed from that station within the hour. I want full manifests, driver records, maintenance reports. Every passenger, every alias. Leave nothing unsearched."
"Yes, Your Grace." The aide bowed, retreating quickly, relieved to escape the weight of his presence.
When the door clicked shut, silence settled. Richard’s eyes dropped to the image again. Slowly, almost reverently, he brought the paper closer, as though the faded ink might still carry scent. He inhaled. Nothing but toner and paper. But in his mind, he could almost imagine that intoxicating scent of roses and wine.
"My little rose," he murmured, the words spoken with the dangerous tenderness of a vow. "I’ll bring you back. I’ll keep you safe."
Safe.
He moved to the central monitor wall, swiping his finger across a touchscreen. Maps bloomed open—digital, clinical. Red pins marked bus routes spider-webbing across the kingdom.
Blue lines tracked cargo shipments, black lines the routes of trains. He zoomed in on the district. Three potential destinations. His jaw flexed as he studied them, lips moving soundlessly, calculating.
Protection. That was all this ever was. His life had been built on it. He had saved villages from landslides, evacuated cities under terrorist attacks, stood at the gates while enemies broke themselves against his defenses.
His protection had cost blood—his men’s, his own—and he carried the scars proudly. Protection was his oath, his creed.
The little rose had never understood that the world was a battlefield. Every street corner hid a threat, every stranger an enemy waiting for an opening. The boy’s kindness—his warmth—was a liability. Richard had seen it, over and over again: the way people leaned closer to him, drawn like moths. They would take from him until nothing was left.
Not if Richard had anything to say about it.
On the desk sat a black velvet case. He opened it carefully. Inside lay a simple iron ring—no jewels, no shine, just raw metal forged heavy. He lifted it, the weight biting into his palm. Gold was for illusions. Silver for dreams. Iron was for reality.
"Not a cage," Richard said quietly, turning the ring over in his scarred hand. "A fortress."
The price of freedom is minor price to pay, for safety.
He snapped the case shut, the sound echoing.
His phone buzzed. A message. He opened it: Archive fire—several months’ bus records lost. Investigation pending.
Of course. He almost smiled. Obstacles meant nothing. He had burned through worse. What were lost bus logs?
"They can burn the records," Richard whispered, lifting the photo again, brushing a thumb across the blurred figure. "But they can’t erase you. Not from me."
He stood there for a long moment, breathing evenly, until his chest stilled and the storm inside settled into steel resolve.
Richard would bring him back.
And this time, nothing would get through his shield.
***
Jack
"Try out these cookies."
Ciel sets a plate in front of me, the steam still curling upward like something out of a commercial. He looks smug, lips twitching as though he already knows my reaction before I even take a bite.
I pick one up and sink my teeth in. Sweet, warm, soft—perfect. Of course it is. Anything Ciel touches comes out perfect. The bastard could probably make burnt toast taste gourmet.
"Delicious," I say, already reaching for another.
Ciel smirks. "Knew it."
I chew thoughtfully, then grin. "You know what’s more delicious?"
He freezes, a little crease forming between his brows, waiting for the punchline. I raise an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to tease him.
Then I open my mouth to continue—
And he spins on his heel, robe swishing dramatically, walking away before I can deliver.
I choke out a laugh. "What, no faith in my sense of humor?!"
He waves a hand dismissively without turning back. "I already know it’s going to be nonsense, Jack."
"Correction," I call after him, leaning back in my chair with a smirk. "It was going to be flattery disguised as nonsense."
No response.
I finish the second cookie and set the plate aside, but my eyes trail after him anyway. He’s moving across the room, all casual like he’s immune to my presence—but I catch the faintest twitch of his shoulders, the tiniest hesitation in his steps.
And then I see it.
That ridiculously cute, perk little butt shifting as he walks away from me.
My grin widens slow, wolfish.
My phone buzzes on the table, screen lighting up. I glance at it casually—then freeze.
The caller ID glares up at me, the name I least want to see right now.
Just like that, the playful warmth in my chest ices over. My jaw tightens.
I almost don’t answer. Almost let it ring out and pretend I never saw it. But ignoring calls from this particular person never makes things better.