"Which means you've uncovered something he doesn't want you to know."
"Sir George." He scrubbed at his mouth. "The explosives. The Prometheus Project. I just wish I knew which one."
"Be patient. Now we have a lead, we can explore them. This is what we do."
"I know." But he hesitated. God, it ached to admit it, but Obsidian had been right about pride and its cost. "I am not... at my best, right now."
"You need sleep."
How easy it sounded. He gave a faint, humorless laugh. "I know." The laughter faded as he looked the assassin in the eye. "I can't afford to make a mistake." The cost would be the lives of one of the Rogues, and the thought hamstrung him a little. "If you think I'm about to make a misstep, then tell me. You know him as well as I do. I won't like it, but I can't.... I can't wear the weight of it all alone."
It was the closest he could come to a confession.
Obsidian slowly nodded. "As you wish."
"And I would appreciate it if you wouldn't tell Gemma about this conversation."
"She worries."
Malloryn scrubbed his face with the towel, then cast it aside. "I've noticed. Maybe you can distract her."
It was a clear dismissal. Obsidian grabbed his clothes and headed for the door, but he paused there, one hand on the knob.
"You are not at your best," the assassin said. "I understand. But there is one thing you should know: This doesn't rest solely upon your shoulders. I know you fear for their safety, but you need to trust your Rogues. They are good at what they do, and they know the risks. They've accepted them, because the consequence is a world where Balfour once again pulls puppet strings.
"I never understood why Gemma's loyalty was bound so inexplicably to you. This. This is why. Because Balfour does not give a damn about those who work for him, and you do. You see it as a weakness—that you care for those around you, and he does not. He can be ruthless with his pawns and the cost of their lives is merely an irritation to him. He has more. He can throw dozens of lives at you without a care, until he overwhelms you. It makes him dangerous. But it is also a weakness.
"Because Balfour's play pieces know they mean nothing to him. They know they are disposable. And while he may offer the Rising Sons a vision of a future they crave, they'll turn on him without a second's notice if that vision goes up in flames.
"Balfour is not invincible. You see him as a threat because this time, you think you are the one who has everything to lose.
"But Gemma would set the world on fire for you, because she loves you. Every single Rogue volunteered to travel to Russia—the most dangerous place in the world—to rescue you. No Rogue left behind. It means something to them. It means something to you. It... means something to me. Stop thinking of it as a weakness, and start thinking of it as a strength."
Malloryn reached for his shirt, as he sorted through his feelings. "He will kill them because of me."
It was the secret that haunted his nights.
"He can try. But we're ready for him, Your Grace. And if our dear leader would get some bloody sleep, it would be a weight off all our minds."
Malloryn blinked in surprise.
"You're not the only one who worries," Obsidian said dryly, as he opened the door. "If you need to hit someone—or be hit some more—then let me know. Otherwise, I'm fairly certain there's a pair of willing arms waiting to greet you upstairs if you were to seek your bed."
If only it were that easy.
"Not you too." Malloryn grimaced. "I think you've been spending too much time with Gemma. Your brain's starting to rot."
Obsidian shrugged and glanced at the practice automaton. "I spent years on my own, hitting things that couldn't hit back, just to silence the voices in my head. I've since discovered a welcoming embrace can be far more therapeutic in some instances. You should try it."
And then he was gone, leaving Malloryn alone with his thoughts.
And the frustrating desire to see if Obsidian was right.
Malloryn sighed, and turned back to the automaton. He wasn't quite ready to concede defeat. Far better if he stayed away from Adele.
Because a part of him couldn't forget the sight of that poor girl draped across a grave.
Catherine. Isabella. Millie Vane. And now this anonymous girl.
All dead because of him.
No. He was better off staying as far away from his wife as he could.
"How is he?" Gemma murmured sleepily, as Obsidian slid between the covers and curled around her.
"On edge," he replied, brushing a kiss to the back of her neck.
Gemma rolled to examine his expression. "What did he say?"
"He asked me not to repeat it."
Which was vexing, but if Malloryn had reached out to Obsidian, then at least he was talking to someone. She had to trust her lover.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered. Despite all the years she'd spent at Malloryn's side…. "I don't know how to reach him."
Not with this.
The duke despised weaknesses, but he would not tolerate them in himself. And despite the fact she could pinpoint the precise issue that afflicted him, she couldn't seem to help him.
Russia had left scars on Malloryn's soul that she couldn't heal. She knew he'd been tortured at Jelena's hands, but not the extent of it. He was learning to control his flinch every time he heard the dhampir agent's name, learning to lock down his physical responses through sheer force of will.
It didn't mean she couldn't see the ghost of it written all over him.
He wouldn't talk to her about it.
He wouldn't even admit he had a bloody problem, despite the restless hours he spent prowling the night, or forcing his body to the edge of exhaustion. Despite the ever dwindling levels of brandy in his personal decanter.
Herbert wouldn't speak of it, not even to her, but she'd seen him look concerned when he refilled them.