It was during one of those cold, winter nights years ago when Kit had been barely old enough to call himself a teenager. Despite spending most of his days away at the boarding school his father forced him to attend, during the two very short weeks during the winter holiday, he was permitted to come home.
Kit hadn’t minded staying away, enjoying the peace that came with not having to worry about a tyrant living only one floor above you. Besides, this year he had finally made a few friends—an impossible feat in the remote estate where one would have to travel at least twenty minutes by car just to find a neighbor.
As a child, he’d been rather content being alone, finding enjoyment in solitary acts—anything to stay out of his father’s way—but as he got older and grew tired of puzzles and word games (both in which he excelled at) he longed for other human interaction besides the family he’d rather not be a part of.
Well, with the exception of Uilleam.
Everything had changed when he was born, from the relationship between their parents, down to the way the household was run. Their mother had spoiled Uilleam rotten, but in the process she also shielded him from the wrath of her husband—something she had never done for Kit.
Perhaps that was where his need to protect Uilleam at all costs had come from. His mother, though never having outright said as much—had conditioned Kit to look after him more than he possibly needed.
And it was for that reason that when Kit heard his father’s booming yell, he’d hopped down from his perch on the windowsill and went running.
So as long as he was in the house, usually Alexander Runehart let Uilleam be if only because he was terrorizing Kit—this would be the first time in a long time he’d heard his brother in trouble.
But, when he hastened down the two flights of stairs, it wasn’t his brother that he found to be in trouble with his father, but Clifton, one of his security.
Kit had never liked the man, nor the man him. Though Clifton was nearly two decades his senior, the man was often jealous of Kit—though there was very little reason to be—simply because he would become his father’s successor one day.
It didn’t matter that Kit wanted no part of the Runehart legacy.
Nor did it matter that what time Kit did spend with his father, he was being terrorized—no, the man only saw what he wanted to see.
That, he could handle. Clifton wouldn’t be the first to dislike him, nor would he be the last. He had learned rather quickly how to ignore what bothered him. The problem came in when his father hadn’t gotten enough enjoyment out of inflicting his punishments, but sought out others to do the same.
Clifton gleefully volunteered.
Blinking as he took in the scene before him, Kit saw Abigail with a hand to her chest and fire in her eyes standing off to one side, Uilleam diligently by her side though slightly behind her.
In her left hand, she held a diamond studded choker, one of her most prized possessions. She didn’t know it was a necklace Alexander had taken from the dead body of his former mistress—Kit thought only he was privy to that knowledge.
Cold, accusing eyes were trained on Clifton, but his own attention was fixated to Alexander and the cleaver he held in his right hand.
“You think to steal from me?” Alexander asked, a dangerous light to his face.
Though Kit longed to ask what was happening, he kept his mouth shut, knowing that he would rather be clueless than to garner his father’s attention.
“I would never steal from you, boss,” Clifton said in a gravelly voice, his unease prevalent. “This is some kind of mistake. I—”
“How eager you were,” Alexander went on as though the other man hadn’t spoken, “to punish my son for eating when he wasn’t meant to be, yet you betray me by stealing from my wife?”
Kit remembered all too well the punishment he had taken for sneaking down to the kitchen for a slice of the massive cake that lay sitting on the counter. He had just been setting in to eat a giant slice with a spoon when Clifton had found him in there.
He had meant to run upstairs, flee before the man could call on his father, but Clifton snagged him before he could take a step, fingers fisting in the back of his sleep shirt. In his haste to make sure he didn’t get away, Clifton had managed to knock over the towering cake, sending it splattering to the floor before it could be saved.
Once Alexander arrived shortly after, Clifton had wasted no time in placing the blame on Kit, and even offered to do the punishment himself.
Alexander wasted no time in agreeing.
He was to get twenty lashings with the same heavy silver spoon he’d intended to eat with—because no one will steal from me, he’d said.
Kit had barely made it through seven before he was wailing in agony, feeling like Clifton had managed to break a number of bones in his hands.
Only when he was knocked to the ground by a closed fist did Kit realize Uilleam stood in the shadow of the alcove, his expression unreadable, but he’d disappeared in the blink of an eye.
It was that same kind of expression reflected on Uilleam’s face now. He too, watched without speaking.