Chapter 198

After that day, he refused to go anywhere near a body of water. Even the sight of one brought back the terrible memory of his brother struggling beneath the surface, his arms flailing as he fought desperately to stay afloat. He remembered the desperate gasps for air, the frantic attempts to break through the surface, and the awful helplessness of watching him slowly sink beneath the water.

It was a long time before he could bring himself to approach a lake or pond again. His father, however, was patient with him. Through gentle coaxing, he gradually encouraged him to accompany him on trips, teaching him how to fish and helping him grow accustomed to being around bodies of water again. He taught him to understand the dangers but also that he could not spend the rest of his life ruled by his fear.

If only Octavia knew how carelessly Simon spoke about the deaths of her son and husband, perhaps she would be less inclined to defend him. It was precisely why Draven could never see Simon as anything other than a spiteful, selfish man, or believe he was capable of changing.

Draven leaned closer, his voice controlled enough to conceal the scalding rage churning within. "You would do well to remember that you are not invulnerable, Simon. Your name has afforded you considerable freedom, but there are limits to what people will tolerate."

"And you would do well to remember that you are hardly in a position to lecture me about other men’s wives." Simon’s gaze travelled over his cousin’s face, relishing the ire he had managed to evoke. "You seem to have forgotten the rumours about you. Everyone remembers the scandal involving Cassandra and the accusations that the two of you were involved while she belonged to another man. Yet you stand here warning me about adultery as though your own conduct has never been brought into question."

Draven’s eyes narrowed intimidatingly. "I would be very careful of the next words that come out of your mouth, if I were you."

"Why? Does the truth offend you?"

"The truth?" Draven repeated derisively, his voice dangerously quiet. "A compulsive liar like you knows nothing about the truth."

Simon snorted. "You have always been rather skilled at taking whatever catches your fancy, regardless of whom it belongs to. It seems you inherited that quality from your dear old father. The apple has not fallen far from the tree."

Draven felt the words strike somewhere deep, awakening a temper he could scarcely contain. His hand tightened to fists at his side, and for one reckless instant he imagined driving his fist into Simon’s smug face.

The temptation was not unfamiliar. Simon had spent years discovering ways on how to antagonize him, then watching with evident satisfaction as Draven struggled to restrain himself.

But they were in the middle of a crowded card room. A public altercation would draw attention, invite speculation, and inevitably drag Cassandra into another scandal she had done nothing to deserve. Draven would not give Simon that satisfaction.

He forced his fists to unclench, calming himself gradually.

"Cassandra is my wife. I can confidently call her mine without hiding behind a locked door or pretending she means nothing to me. You, on the other hand, seem content to be the dirty little secret a married woman keeps. No different from a whore. A disgrace. You are not worthy of the Montague name."

For a brief instant, Simon’s smile faltered.

Draven had struck a nerve. Simon had never pretended that his arrangement with Agatha Dubarry would lead to anything resembling an ordinary relationship, nor had he ever asked her to abandon the life she built with her husband. Their illicit relationship was almost purely physical.

Simon drew closer until they stood toe to toe.

"You have always mistaken your ability to command a room for the ability to control everyone in it," Simon gritted out.

"And perhaps one day you will discover that provoking people is not a substitute for having anything worthwhile to say." Draven shot back immediately. Since Gareth’s passing, they were always at each other’s throats and it was a miracle that they hadn’t resulted to trading blows instead of barbed words.

Several thoughts fleeted through his mind at once, and for a while, it seemed Simon was about to deliver another cutting insult. Yet, in an unexpected turn, he appeared to reconsider and held his tongue.

"I am not your enemy, Draven."

Draven was uncertain whether this was yet another of Simon’s games. He had so many.

"I know my behaviour has given you every reason to think otherwise," Simon continued. "I have said things I ought not to have said, and made little effort to hide my resentment. But I do not consider you my adversary, however much you may consider me yours. I would like to think that, in time, we might put some of this ugliness behind us."

It made little difference. Years of bitterness and resentment could hardly be undone by a few words, least of all when they came from a man who had spent much of their lives turning everything into a competition.

Draven gave a short, humourless scoff.

"Do spare me the theatrics, Simon. I have no appetite for it."

Simon could not spend years hating him, hurling insults whenever the opportunity presented itself, and then expect a few conciliatory words to make everything right. It did not work that way.

Draven turned away before his cousin could respond and returned to the gathering, leaving Simon where he stood.

Simon watched him go, his jaw tightening as Draven disappeared into the crowd. He had hardly expected his offer to be met with open arms, but some part of him had hoped it might at least be received in good faith.

Instead, he was left with the familiar conviction that nothing he said or did would ever change the opinion Draven had formed of him.

It was just like Draven to start an argument and then turn around and behave like he were the injured party. He had always been the family’s golden son, the one whose faults were readily overlooked and whose actions could seemingly never be called into question.

Simon abandoned the card room shortly afterwards, seeking somewhere quieter where he would not have to endure another unwelcome encounter. He found an arrangement of upholstered armchairs positioned back-to-back against each other and lowered himself into one, stretching his legs before him as he rested his head against the backrest.

Someone was occupying the chair behind him.

"You ought to be more careful about provoking him," a man remarked. "One of these days, he may decide he has endured quite enough of your antics and take it upon himself to kill you."

The words curled around Simon like a snake as he settled further into his chair.

"He had better hurry up, then. A single bullet to the head will suffice," he replied dryly.

The man must have witnessed their exchange. Apparently, they weren’t as discreet as they had imagined.

A low chuckle came from behind him.

"You miserable bastard. You do have a talent for making the most morbid remarks imaginable."

"Thank you. It is a skill I have worked hard to cultivate."

"You speak of death like you long for it, yet you never seem particularly inclined to put an end to your own existence. A man who genuinely wishes to die does not usually go about announcing it to anyone who will listen." The man said knowingly. "Yours sounds rather more like a cry for help."