His father spat in his face, a clammy mark of saliva sliding down Julian's cheek. He rubbed off that devil's secretion with the back of his hand, screeching his teeth in an attempt to master his self-control.

"You cannot hurt me. I can and will protect those I care about, regardless of any plots you may plan." Julian articulated disdainfully.

His father simpered malevolently, a mischevious glint pulsating in his eyes. "Sure, but can you deal with the press and the Prime-minister? I think not. Let's just say a little bird tipped them off."

A conglomerate of voices suddenly reverberated from outside the room and mingled into an unseizable sound.

"Oops, look who's here." His father passed his tongue over his teeth, revealing a snicker that could have petrified any man without a spine.

"John!" The Duke yelled, his Vezuvian snarl making Freya quiver. He was beyond any control, but his attitude was more than justifiable. Such a father was not only a disgrace, but also a curse. Freya came to the conclusion that her husband's apparent monstrous mien was simply a shielding mask from perils and misery. Was it her fault, though? Did breaking his walls mean that she had left him without defence?

Oh, Christ. Stay by my side, for I fear I have caused more damage than good. The Duchess prayed, her fingers moving restlessly.

"Yes, milord?" John came to his master's aid.

"Get the press off my pavement!"

"But... milord? You have never been kind to the press and they have already ranged you as an anti-system leader. Do you think it would be wise to neglect them again? I mean... the Queen may accept your decisions, but I believe she will not be doing as such one more time."

Julian quirked his eyebrows and pinched the bridge of his nose. Was his own butler defying him? He never thought he would live the day when a peasant would outsmart him. He did, nevertheless. John was right, a closure and a compromise were needed.

"Fine. I will be standing in the balcony in a few moments to talk to them. Just... for Pete's sake, send my father to the dungeons! I cannot stand his guts!" The Duke barked again, more forcefully that time.

John conformed to his master's orders and called one of the guards to help him. Julian heard his father's swearing in a blur, for his mind was in search for a break that would never be granted. At least not for the following days. He was supposed to be focused, yet all he wanted was a fresh start, a mirage, an illusion.

Freya noticed his possible breakdown and came by his side, clinging onto his shoulders. Massaging them tenderly, she kissed his cheek and rested her forehead on his. "One hour at a time, alright? It will pass, my love. You know it will."

The Duke almost froze. That was the first time his wife ever called him "my love". It occurred to him that it was the most soothing word anyone would ever verbalise. He was still unable to portray Freya's ability to calm him down. No glasses of whisky or punches thrown in a wall, absolutely nothing could render him the peace that Freya was offering with such ease.

She was his shelter, but was he hers? He did not actually bother to inquire about her own state of mind. Was she frightened, concerned, or maybe furious as he was? Why didn't he ask about her for the past few days? Such an egotistical traitor I am. Julian thought, making a mental note to compensate later for his lack of empathy.

"Can you... can you come with me to the balcony? I... I do not think I would be able to resist them." Julian stuttered, putting his hand into his wife's.

Freya nodded, pleased to observe that he confided unhesitantly. They both reached the balcony and a roaring wave of voices exploded. There were so many adressed questions, so many reporters that Julian almost lost his balance. Freya laced her arm around him to secure his steadiness.

"Dear citizens, there is nothing to be worried about. My father and I may not see each other eye to eye, but our uptight relationship will not affect my position as the Duke of Eastbroke. I can assure you of my full professionalism."

His control was on the verge of shattering. A few more minutes and he would call the guards.

"What about the said bastard?" One of the reporters asked, raising his voice to reach the Duke's ears.

Julian smiled half-heartedly. "It was a scheme my father had plotted. The child is his, not mine. Every negative news you will be hearing about me in the future is delivered by my father, who intends to hinder my credibility. My position as a leader is always righteous, therefore you can be certain that my father will be lying shamelessly."

His speech involuntarily put an end to the reporters' questions. They seemed satisfied, but Julian was aware that the press, however pleased it may declare itself, always finds some details to pick on. That was the reason Julian despised the media at full capacity: disrespect for intimacy, exaggerated perseverance and false meaning of words. Nevertheless, he could not concentrate on probabilities at that moment, but on facts alone – and the only fact he could not doubt was his need for leisure time.

He waved gracefully at the herd below him and left the balcony, asking John – who has just arrived – to escort the reporters out. The butler complied and soon after his departure, the humming of voices disappeared.

"I really want to sleep, Freya. But I have so many things to do! I just need..." Julian's breath came in pants, a few pebbles of perspiration sliding down his forehead.

Freya placed her palm on his cheek and instructed him, her voice as soft as a lava chocolate cake. "One hour of rest cannot harm anyone. Come along, dear."

The Duke nodded and they walked silently to the bedroom. While helping each other to undress, Julian asked his wife in a mellow tone: "Can you call me <<my love>> one more time?"

The Duchess blinked a couple of times, unsure of his attitude. He resembled a child in desperate need for comfort – a sweet little boy who had lost his blanket and was asking for a replacement. I will be your blanket. She said internally, smiling at herself for how their relationship evolved.

"My love, hug me tightly!" She whispered, removing her last piece of attire – the bra. Her alluring, plump bosoms came in Julian's sight and he felt an odd emotion animating his body. She is all mine, he realised, touching the skin where his heart was supposed to be.

He entangled his fingers in her hair, bringing her closer to him. She buried her blushing face in the crook of his neck, lacing her arm around his torso. Her nipples hardened in contact with his pectorals, and they both shuddered in delight at such tender proximity. All they actually did was embrace each other, yet that touch felt more intimate than any other gesture. They stood in the same position for an hour and a half before John knocked and interrupted their reverie.

As if they were no longer separate individuals, but one rustling body, they growled at the same time and with the same intensity. "Bloody hell!" Julian swore, opening his eyes lazily.

He gazed at his wife's visage and noticed how their proximity actually transformed her. Her skin was glowing, her after-sleep smile was more luscious and her eyes were exuding tranquility, content and... love? No, that could not be, could it?

"Hi." She whispered, stretching herself like a feline.

"Hi." He answered back, leaning in to suck her lower lip. She chuckled, their lips still touching, her heart still beating as relentlessly as it did when they first kissed.

Julian deepened his exploration of her dulcet mouth, his tongue venturing in new and fascinating territories. Freya purred, pushing her core to his member. She could feel its wicked arousal putting pressure on her already moist panties. She quivered in anticipation, but remembered her husband's duty and gently created a space between them.

"As much as I want this to continue, we need to end your conflict with your father." She cursed the elder for halting their steamy encounter, but assured herself that she would taste her husband after sorting the rivalry out.

"You are trying to prolong my misery, aren't you?" He grinned provocatively, pinching her fog-cutting nipples.

She pretended to be offended, but failed miserably. She loved the feeling of being cherised, even though it was not love yet. "Believe me, the only misery I am prolonging is my own. Now, come on, put your clothes on."

"Yes, mom." He winked, helping her button her blouse after he finished dressing.

With a final slap on her rounded buttocks, Julian greeted John and descended in the dungeons. Freya could sense the icy coolness of the stoned tunnels and the damp walls. It was frightening, but also necessary. Traitors had to know where they belonged.

Reaching the third cell on the right side, Julian turned the switch on to have a clearer view of his father. Freya followed him, but almost fainted when she saw the elder with his throat slit open, a pool of crimson blood circling him. She gasped and took a step back, but Julian remained still. His father was too proud to commit suicide, for he always desired a glorious death. Dying with a penknife in his left hand was not exactly a fantasy.

Julian looked around to verify whether more signs of suicide were present. A message on the wall, carved half with the elder's own nails, half with the penknive, struck both Julian's and Freya's heart.

Incarceration means loss of dignity. I shall be proud until the day I die. Cheers.

Even though Julian resented his father, he still felt a tedious pain clutching his body. He collapsed on his knees, his mind far away from the present. All he could think about was the memory of his father's heartfelt conversations when he, the almighty Duke, was just a little boy sipping on the elder's kind words.