Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“I know.”
Something about the hush in Brand’s voice, the edge to it, made Ash look up—but the man wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the bed, at Calvin Harrington, but his eyes were distant behind his glasses, green unfocused and far away, seeing other things.
“Forsythe…?”
Brand shook himself, then looked down at Ash. He looked almost confused for a moment, something strange flickering across his face, before he admitted, “My parents died when I was eight.” He said it with the same blunt calm with which he said everything else—but those depthless eyes told a different story, strange and deep with unspoken thoughts, glimmering. “An automobile crash. I was the only survivor, save an older sister who wasn’t in the car that night.” He hesitated, lips parted in silence for long moments, before he continued, “As you said…too sudden. The hourglass, shattered.” His gaze strayed away from Ash once more, and he adjusted his glasses absently. “It changes your life in an instant.”
“I’m sorry.” As deeply as Ash ached…there was room in him to ache for Brand, too, he found. And he didn’t know what to do, so he did what felt right—and shifted to lean harder against Brand’s side, resting his head to his shoulder. “What…happened after that? If it’s okay for me to ask.”
Brand turned his head toward Ash; his cheek brushed warm against Ash’s hair. “I stopped up with my sister. She was a nanny for the Newcombs.”
“The Newcombs…? Vic’s parents?”
“One generation back, young Master.” A touch of amusement. “His grandparents. His father was one of my sister’s charges, for all that he was older than I at the time. The Newcombs were kind enough to allow her to take me in with no charge for room and board, so I learned to make myself useful around the house.” Brand shrugged lightly, powerful shoulders moving beneath the suit coat, shifting Ash’s weight. “I found comfort, I think, in taking care of things. As if, if I took enough proper care, they would not be taken away from me.”
Ash bit his lip. He didn’t know what to say. Brand Forsythe was a stranger to him; over the past few days he’d managed to stitch himself into the fabric of Ash’s life, but he’d put himself in a role as ubiquitous and yet colorless as furniture, as utensils.
These words—quietly, rawly, yet so freely given—made him a person, rich with life and color.
And Ash didn’t know what to do with that, so he only curled his arms around Brand’s arm, leaning in close, and listened.
“After a time,” Brand continued softly, “it became natural. And when I was nineteen, a young Mr. Newcomb—lost much as you are, soon to be married with no idea what to do with an estate and an inheritance—offered me a formal position in the household.”
“Don’t that bother you?” Ash ventured. “Living for someone else, instead of for yourself?”
Brand smiled faintly. “What makes you think I don’t live for myself?”
“I just…” Fumbling, Ash shook his head. “Isn’t there anything else you’ve ever wanted?”
“Someone to care for.” And then those darkened eyes were on him again—locking on him, holding him, drawing him in until the terrible mausoleum of a room fell away and there was only an unspoken question swimming in eyes as dark a green as a still deep pond at night, glimmering beneath firefly-light. “Nearly everyone I loved was taken from me in an instant, young Master Ashton. Is it so strange that what I should want most in the world is to keep the people I care for comfortable and safe?”
“But…how can your care for people who are paying you to do it?”
“Sometimes it is not about the money.” That warm, reassuring arm tightened around him. “Do you think I would not care for you if you did not pay me?”
Ash’s breaths caught. He—fuck, he was too emotional right now, and this…this was hitting him hard, gutting him in ways he couldn’t handle. He ducked his head, staring down at his lap. “…I think you wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t paying you. It’s your job, and you can’t care for someone you’ve known for three days.”
“I came to you under terms of employment, yes,” Brand countered. “Money would not have been enough to make me stay. Not even for these few short days.”
Something in that rich, velvety voice, something compelling and soft, drew Ash to look up at him again. He didn’t understand Brand Forsythe, when something seemed laid bare and naked on that elegant face—but it was written in a language Ash didn’t know how to read.
“Forsythe…?”
“Brand,” he corrected softly.
“…Brand.” He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “I don’t—”
“…A-Ash…?” drifted across the room—low, creaking, whispery as a ghost.
But familiar as the sound of Ash’s own voice, cutting through him with a knife’s keen edge.