The Bastard (Darling #2) [ongoing]

Chapter Two

T H E R E  W A S a party of six sitting in the drawing room of Thatcher's and Dane's shared apartment. The apartment had always been shared between the two brothers, but Thatcher had it all to himself when Dane was in France for all of those years. The space was far too large for the two of them, let alone one of them.

Thatcher never understood why the two brothers would have to need such large living quarters meant to be resided in for a family of four to five. The Clemens' apartment below the brother's was even smaller, and they were a family of four. Surely, they could have used the space more. He was aware Louelle would have loved it. She would have enjoyed being farther away from her sister.

He swallowed the lump stuck in his throat at the mere thought of her. He could not even think of anything so mundane and unrelated to her, yet somehow he found a way to relate it to her.

She left.

She had actually left. It did not feel real to him. Nothing felt real to him. The pain in his knees from scraping them against the gravel; the ache in his chest; the soreness of his legs from pushing his muscles past their limit; the coldness in the room, although the hearth was well-lit. Regardless of what he sensed, he felt numb above all.

Is this what heartache truly feels like? he asked himself as he watched the flames flicker and grow in front of him. It was like he was observing his life - the one he and Louelle had thought of together - burning away.

Thatcher rubbed at his burning eyes with the heel of his hands. He no longer felt like crying. Even if he wished to, he did not think he was able to. He was in a state of complete shock. His face remained passive; emotionless. He was simply sitting - barely existing - in a chair in front of the hearth, the warmth hitting him just right but still feeling cold, while everyone else kept him company and silently panicked to themselves or amongst one another.

He was able to feel Maryann staring back at him from time to time, surely worried for his well-being. He would have been worried for himself also if he was in her shoes. In all of their days of being acquaintances, he'd always played to be a jovient man. There was never a time where he did not have a smile on his face - usually.

That was, until Louelle left him... And with so many questions left unanswered, words left unsaid.

Maryann was the one to find him still kneeling on the gravel just outside of the castle's gate. He was uncertain of how long he'd remained there before she found him, but he was positive it had to be quite a deal of time. He had watched as the carriage grew smaller and smaller as it had gotten farther and farther from the castle, until it completely disappeared from his sight. His knees were beginning to grow absent of feeling. Hot tears slid down his cheeks, leaving them scarred with tear stains.

When Maryann delicately placed her hand on his shoulder, he did not even flinch. His mind was too preoccupied to care about anything else.

"Thatcher," she whispered in a voice of disdain. Maryann was aware of the prince crumbling inside. The guards stationed on the top of the wall were half-heartedly observing it, too.