//CLARA//

The hug lasted a heartbeat too long for a proper lady and an unmarried gentleman. I could feel the heat of Oliver’s relief, his heart finally slowing down, but I could also feel the temperature in the room plummeting.

A sharp, loud throat-clearing echoed through the hallway. It wasn’t a cough. It was a warning shot.

Oliver jumped. He pulled back slowly, his movements stiff, and turned to face the room. Casimir was standing three feet away, his arms folded across his chest, his posture so rigid he looked like he’d been carved out of the very stone of the courthouse.

I didn’t pull away. In fact, I stayed right where I was, tucked into Oliver’s side, and slowly raised mocking eyebrow at Casimir. Oliver kept glancing between the two of us.

"Don’t you have anything you’d like to say to Mr. Whitfield... Uncle?"

I emphasized the title just enough to let him know I was enjoying this.

Casimir’s jaw tightened so hard I heard his teeth grind. He knew exactly what I was doing. In the privacy of the mansion, he probably would have picked me up and marched me to my room, but here? In a hallway filled with lingering lawyers and curious bailiffs? He was trapped.

He had a reputation to maintain. The infamous stone-cold facade couldn’t crack for a girl’s teasing.

Casimir’s eyes flickered to mine—a brief, lightning-strike of a glare—before he turned his gaze to Oliver.

"It appears," he began, as if struggling to find the right words before he continued, "that I owe you an apology, Mr. Whitfield. For the... misunderstanding regarding your involvement."

It was the most half-hearted apology in the history of New York, but for Casimir Guggenheim, it was practically a grand confession of sin.

I didn’t make it easier for him. I shifted, purposefully clinging to Oliver’s arm, linking mine through his in a way that was undeniably intimate.

Casimir’s gaze dropped instantly to where my hand rested on Oliver’s sleeve. His eyes narrowed, burning with a proprietary heat that should have set my arm on fire.

Oliver, bless him, found a shred of his own backbone. He didn’t bow or scrape. He only stared at him for a long moment. His jaw worked. His hands curled into fists at his sides. For a second, I thought he might swing. I would not have blamed him.

Then he just nodded. His lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line.

That was all the acknowledgment Casimir was going to get.

The tension in the courthouse hallway was so brittle I half-expected the stained-glass windows to shatter. I turned my attention to Oliver, reaching up to gently tilt his face toward the light. Up close, the damage was gut-wrenching. The bruises were a deep, sickly purple, and the cuts on his cheek were jagged and untended.

Casimir’s handiwork.

"You’re a mess, Oliver," I whispered, pitching my voice just right so the syllables drifted back to Casimir like a taunt.

I looked back at my darling guardian. He looked like he wanted to burn the building down just to ash the memory of me touching another man.

"He’s coming with us to the mansion. We need to have him thoroughly checked by a doctor. He hasn’t been properly tended to, and I won’t have it on my conscience."

Oliver blinked. "Eleanor, I really do not think—"

"I wasn’t asking, Oliver." I gave him a look that shut him up instantly.

Casimir took a step forward, as he let out a low, guttural grunt that only I could hear. It was a warning—a promise that I would pay for this whim the moment we were behind closed doors.

I didn’t flinch. I just looked him dead in the eye, gave him a slow, wicked wink, and started ushering a bewildered Oliver toward the exit.

"Come on, Oliver," I said brightly. "The carriage is waiting."

As for whatever punishment Casimir might have in store for me later? Well. I was not exactly complaining. A little high-stakes discipline never hurt anyone.

And honestly? I might actually need a spanking for this one. Gosh, I’m a menace.

The ride back to the mansion was an exercise in exquisite awkwardness.

Casimir sat across from us, his arms remained crossed. Oliver sat beside me, staring out the window, his hands clasped so tightly in his lap that his knuckles were white. I sat in the middle, swinging my feet slightly, trying—and failing—not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.

"So," I said, popping the silence like a bubble. "That was fun."

Neither of them answered.

"I mean, not the nearly-being-imprisoned-for-a-crime-you-did-not-commit part. That was terrible." I continued, breezy as a summer gale. "But the courtroom drama? Very climactic. I feel like I should get an award."

Casimir’s eye twitched.

Oliver said nothing.

I sighed dramatically. "Fine. Be boring."

The carriage rolled on.

The mansion was dark when we arrived. Aunt Cornelia had evidently retreated to her lair to hydrate on spite and smelling salts. The servants were nowhere to be seen. It was just the three of us, and the ticking of a grandfather clock.

I led Oliver to the library and pushed him into a chair. "Sit. Stay. Do not move."

"Eleanor—"

"I said sit."

Casimir loomed in the doorway. He hadn’t uttered a syllable since we left the courthouse.

I moved to the sideboard, found the crystal brandy decanter, and poured three generous glasses. I handed one to Oliver. I handed one to Casimir. He did not take it.

"Come on. It’s either this or I start singing, and nobody wants that," I said, holding the glass under his nose.

He took it, his gloved fingers brushing mine that felt more like a localized lightning strike.

I raised mine. "To Oliver. Who is innocent. And free. And currently looking like he went ten rounds with a prizefighter."

Oliver let out a shaky, half-strangled breath. "You are enjoying this far too much."

"I am enjoying you being out of a cell." I clinked my glass against his. "There is a difference."

Casimir didn’t join the toast. He just stood there, watching Oliver with an expression I could not read.

"Casimir," I sighed, turning to him. "Drink up. Stop glaring at our guest. It’s rude, and frankly, your face is doing that thing again."

"What thing?" he bit out.

"Where you look like you’re trying to solve a complex differential equation while simultaneously digesting a whole lemon."

Oliver let out a small, involuntary snort. It was the first sign of life I’d seen in him all night.

Casimir’s jaw tightened until I thought his teeth might shatter. "Eleanor."

"Casimir." I smiled, sweet as arsenic. "Drink."

He drained the glass in one go.

Dr. Varga arrived an hour later, a fussy man with a stethoscope and a mustache that looked personally offended by my existence. He had pulled me through my infection, so I trusted him. He examined Oliver’s face, checked his ribs, and asked about his vision.

"Nothing is broken," he said finally. "The bruises will heal. The cut above his eye will scar, but it is superficial. Rest is the best medicine."

I thanked him and saw him out.

When I returned, Oliver was asleep in the chair, his head tilted back, his mouth slightly open. The brandy had done its work.

Casimir was still standing in the doorway.

"He cannot stay here," he said quietly.

"He’s staying the night. It’s past midnight and he can barely walk," I countered, walking toward him until I was inches from his chest.

I could smell the sharp tang of the scotch and the cold night air clinging to his coat.

"He spent a week in a hole because of us, Casimir. Because of me."

I met his dark-stormy gaze.

"He’s staying. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out a pension or a new life or whatever it takes. But tonight? He sleeps in a room with silk sheets and no bars. End of discussion."

Casimir was silent for a heartbeat too long. I could see the battle behind his eyes—the urge to drag Oliver out by the collar versus the agonizing need to please me.

"Fine," he whispered.

"Thank you."

"Do not thank me." He stepped into my space, overwhelming me with his presence. "I did not do it for him."

"I know." I reached up, my fingers grazing his forehead to brush back a stray dark lock. "You did it for me."

He caught my wrist in a move so fast I didn’t see it coming. His thumb pressed firmly against my pulse point, feeling the frantic skip of my heart.

"Do not push me, Clara," he warned, his voice dropped to a gravelly, intimate register. "You’ve had your fun for the evening."

"I would never."

He stared at me for a long, his eyes dark with a mix of exhaustion and a hunger that made my toes curl. Then, he let go and vanished into the shadows of the hall without another word.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. God, he’s intense.