My Bratty Wife
Chapter 190 - Hundred And Ninety

Chapter 190: Chapter Hundred And Ninety

Brook entered Evan’s study. "My lord," he announced, his voice calm and professional.

Evan, seated behind his ornate desk, looked up, his expression expectant. "What news do you bring?" he asked.

Brook handed him a folded letter. "I have word from our intel," he replied.

Evan took the letter, unfolding it and reading the contents with a keen eye. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fireplace, watching as the flames consumed the paper.

He turned to Brook, his eyes gleaming with a dark amusement. "Make a move tonight," he instructed, his voice low and decisive.

Brook bowed his head. "As you command, my lord," he replied. He then paused, adding, "Lady Eleanor has eyes on the Duchess."

Evan laughed, a short, sharp sound that echoed in the study. "That woman is so persistent," he remarked, his amusement laced with a hint of annoyance. He paused, his laughter fading, and continued, "And Cassandra?"

"The Duchess suspects," Brook replied, his voice neutral.

Evan’s smile widened. "As expected of her," he said, his eyes sparkling with a dark anticipation. "Let’s see who wins. I’m actually rooting for Cassandra, what about you?"

Brook remained silent, his expression carefully blank. He knew better than to answer such a loaded question, to offer his personal opinions on his master’s twisted games.

Evan looked at him, his amusement turning into a mock exasperation. "Ugh, you’re such a spoilsport," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Be gone."

Brook bowed his head again, his expression unchanged. "As you wish, my lord," he said, and turned to leave the study.

As Brook exited, Evan leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace. His smile returned, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. He is becoming more and more obsessed with Cassandra, and the thought of her made him feel powerful.

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Ryan was re-reading Suzy’s letters, his fingers tracing the delicate curves of each alphabet. He inhaled the faint, lingering scent of her, a familiar fragrance that brought a sense of warmth and comfort. Just then, Davis knocked and entered the study, his arms laden with documents.

He looked at Ryan, his expression concerned. "Are you alright, Your Grace?" he asked, his voice laced with gentle inquiry.

Ryan looked up from the letters, his gaze thoughtful. "Have you ever been in love, Davis?" he asked, his voice soft.

Davis was taken aback by the unexpected question. He hesitated, then replied, "I don’t think so, Your Grace. I never had the time."

Ryan’s gaze sharpened, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. "Are you saying that working for me has deprived you of finding love?" he asked, his voice laced with a gentle reproach.

Davis, sensing Ryan’s concern, immediately bowed his head, his voice filled with sincere apology. "No, Your Grace, I never meant it that way," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I love working with you. You are the best master I could ever have. You helped a helpless orphan from going rogue, and for that, I devoted my life to be by your side."

He straightened up, his expression earnest. "I am grateful for your kindness, Your Grace," he continued, his voice filled with sincerity. "You gave me purpose, a place to belong. I have no regrets."

Ryan’s gaze drifted away, his thoughts pulling him back to a memory from his youth, a time when he was just eighteen.

"My lord," a guard announced, his voice sharp and respectful, "we caught the rascals who attempted to raid your carriage."

Young Ryan, then a lean and imposing figure, rose from the tree bark he had been resting on. He descended to where the captured delinquents were held, his expression cold and calculating. He saw five boys, their faces smudged with dirt and fear, but one of them caught his attention. He was the youngest, perhaps four years younger than Ryan himself, his eyes wide and filled with a desperate kind of fear. He looked like he had been forced into this, a reluctant participant in their botched robbery.

Ryan singled him out, gesturing to the guard. "Bring him to me," he commanded, his voice low and firm.

The guard obeyed, pushing the young boy forward. Ryan looked down at him, his gaze piercing. "What’s your name?" he asked.

The boy’s voice trembled as he replied, "I don’t have one. People call me Runt sometimes Rat or an Idiot... the list is long. I don’t have a particular name that sticks to me."

"Are your parents aware you are here?" Ryan asked, his expression unreadable.

The boy shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. "I don’t have parents," he whispered.

Ryan asked " what are you doing here with them?"

The boy replied. " I took their food because I was very hungry. I was caught and they told me I had to pay for the food by joining them in robbing a rich kid."

Ryan reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol, the cold steel gleaming in the light. He held it out to the boy. "Shoot me," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

The boy’s hands shook as he stared at the weapon. "My lord?" he stammered, his voice filled with confusion and terror.

"If you kill me," Ryan explained, his voice calm and steady, "you will be able to rob my carriage in peace and take all the treasures. You could even sell some of the carriage parts and pay for the food you stole."

The head of the boys, a hardened youth with a cruel glint in his eyes, whispered to the young boy, his voice laced with desperate encouragement. "Shoot him," he hissed. "We will split everything equally. You will have enough to eat for the rest of your life."

The young boy’s tears began to flow freely, his body trembling. "I don’t want to kill you," he sobbed, his voice choked with fear. "I haven’t killed anyone before. Please, young master, spare me." He knelt down, his eyes pleading.

Ryan chuckled, a low, humorless sound. He turned to the guard. "Take the rest for trial for their offenses," he commanded. "This one goes home with me."

The guard bowed his head and led the other boys away, their faces filled with a mixture of fear and resentment.

"Runt, you betraying rat." The head boy screamed as he got taken away.

Ryan pulled out a clean handkerchief from his coat, turning back to the boy, who was still kneeling on the ground. "Wipe your face, Davis," he said, handing him the cloth.

The boy’s eyes widened in shock as he took the handkerchief. "Davis?" he repeated, his voice filled with disbelief.

Ryan nodded. "That’s your name from now on," he said, his voice firm and decisive.

The flashback ended, the image of the young, frightened Davis fading from Ryan’s mind. He turned towards Davis, his expression softening. He understood Davis’s loyalty, his unwavering dedication. "I appreciate your dedication, Davis," he said, his voice gentle. "But I also want you to have a life of your own. You deserve happiness."

Davis smiled, a small, grateful smile. "My happiness is serving you, Your Grace," he replied. "It is all I need." He then gestured towards the documents he carried. "I brought the information you requested." He changed the subject, realizing Ryan was in a sensitive mood.

Ryan looked at Davis, his expression weary. "Just drop them on the desk," he said, his voice low.

Davis, sensing his master’s somber mood, placed the documents on the desk, his gaze lingering on Ryan’s troubled face. "Is all this... all the questions about Her Grace?" he asked, his voice hesitant.

Ryan let out a sigh, a sound filled with longing and weariness. "I miss her," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never realized how lonely this castle was. Now it’s more lonely and depressing without her presence, her voice, her smell, her banter, everything that’s uniquely her. I just want to go back to that chateau and hold her close to my heart."

Davis felt a pang of sympathy for his master, seeing the rare vulnerability in his eyes. "I’m sure Her Grace feels the same way," he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. "We are halfway in solving this case, and her life won’t be endangered anymore. Then, both of you will be together again."

Ryan sighed again, a sound of resignation. "Yes," he murmured. "I suppose so." He stood up from his seat, his movements slow and heavy. "I’ll be in my room. I’m tired." He left the study, leaving Davis alone with his thoughts.

Davis went to the kitchen, seeking a moment of quiet reflection. He found Mrs. Madelyn tidying up. "A glass of water, please, Mrs. Madelyn," he requested, his voice soft.

Mrs. Madelyn poured him a glass, her expression filled with concern. "How is His Grace doing?" she asked, her voice low.

"Better, hopefully," Davis replied, taking a sip of the water.

Mrs. Madelyn sighed. "The last time I saw him this way was when his mother died," she murmured, her voice filled with pity. "Poor child."

Just then, a sharp, deafening gunshot echoed from upstairs. Davis’s eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew, instinctively, that the sound had come from Ryan’s room. He dropped the glass, the water spilling across the floor, the cup shattering as he rushed towards the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the silent castle.

He burst into Ryan’s room, his breath catching in his throat. The scene before him was one of chaos and horror. A pool of blood spread across the floor, staining the plush carpet a dark, crimson red.

"Your Grace!!!" Davis screamed, his voice filled with terror and despair.