Alistair understood the mechanics of affection, the calibrated exchange of societal approval. Proper attachments, the kind that promised an uncluttered future, were constructed upon a scaffolding of shared pedigree, congruent fortunes, and symmetrical ambitions. A true gentleman recognized this geometry of desire, this precise science of enduring contentment. He prided himself on grasping such fundamental truths. This rational framework, he often mused, was the very bedrock of a well-ordered life, a direct passage to the quiet satisfaction coveted by all within the Sovereign Isles. These were the gilded chains, he knew, that bound one to happiness. Then, the year he reached his majority, a peculiar fissure appeared in his carefully cemented convictions. It arrived, not as a gentle bloom, but as a searing, discordant note, shattering the perceived harmony of his existence. What he felt was not a dalliance, not a fleeting fancy. No, this was something more akin to a parasitic growth, an insidious fascination. Such an intensity, so profoundly unsettling, should have been promptly dissected, labelled, and dismissed as a youthful indiscretion, a mere fevered dream of a solitary scholar. He told himself it *was* just that. A temporary affliction. A stain on the gilt. Yet, the tendrils of that strange, unwelcome devotion coiled tighter around his thoughts. They constricted his breathing, a constant, dull ache beneath his ribs, a persistent phantom weight he could not shrug off. It was an illness, he realized, and it had taken root deep within him. “To Blackwood Station, quickly now.” Watching the city’s pre-dawn pallor unfurl beyond the carriage window, Alistair felt a familiar tremor. A message, sudden and intrusive as a cracked pane in a quiet parlour, had stolen away his early morning peace. A brittle parchment, delivered by a breathless footman moments before, lay crumpled in his palm. He had sat on his bed’s edge for a long moment, the chill of the unheated room seeping into his bones, before rising with a muttered curse. No one stirred in the house. His valet slept soundly, and the downstairs staff remained oblivious in their quarters. No one would mark his absence. He decided to go. He stepped onto the cobblestones, the pre-dawn air biting at his exposed skin. The family across the lane had moved in a year past, their prior occupants having departed with an abruptness that fueled endless gossip in the district. He had never encountered them, a common enough occurrence in their rarefied, walled-off neighborhood. Parked negligently against the neighbour’s wrought-iron fence, a finely tooled phaeton stood, its leather straps cracked, its dark paint dulled by disuse. A singular crest, a raven with outstretched wings, was barely visible beneath a film of grime. It was a proud device, yet neglected. It bespoke of hurried departure or careless indifference, somehow reminiscent of his own constrained spirit. He stared briefly, then averted his gaze, climbing into the waiting hansom cab. The cab lurched forward, rattling over the uneven street. Alistair kept his eyes fixed on the fleeting glimpses of sleeping storefronts and gas lamps. A profound queasiness began to churn in his stomach, a familiar prelude to the dizzying sickness that often plagued him during journeys. Eventually, unable to bear the shifting panorama, he closed his eyes. His fingers pressed hard against his temples. For nearly a year now, he had struggled to digest even the simplest fare. A sigh escaped his lips, a mere whisper in the confined space. He tried to ease the tightness lodged beneath his sternum. He made a habit of ignoring emotions that unsettled him, pushing them down, deep into the recesses of his being. With enough effort, he had managed to project a composed façade all this time—just like he was now, stepping from the cab’s musty interior and into the opulent, if early-morning quiet, lobby of the Grand Aerodrome Hotel. Inside, he bit his lip, the sharp tang of coppery blood blooming on his tongue. His fists clenched, then relaxed with deliberate effort. He smoothed the crumpled parchment, found the suite number scrawled upon it, and approached the corresponding door, a dark oak monstrosity with a gleaming brass knocker shaped like a Griffin’s head. Slowly, Alistair raised a hand and knocked three times. “Hadrian. Lord Thorne. Open the door, I know you’re in there.” Silence. It greeted him from the other side, thick and cloying as velvet. Irritated, a pulse thrumming fiercely in his temple, Alistair stared at the unyielding wood for a moment. He exhaled sharply, a ragged sound. He pounded on the door again, this time with a force that sent a tremor up his arm. “I said, open the damn door!” This situation—honestly, it was disgusting. Imagining what might have transpired within these walls overnight made his skin crawl. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Yet, he could not stop himself from knocking. Lord Hadrian Thorne had asked for him, and Alistair was enduring this repulsive scene because Thorne was the one who had infected him with that first, insidious “illness.” Thorne, who knew exactly how to dismantle Alistair’s carefully constructed composure. “Why in the hell are you summoning me when you’re off having some frivolous dalliance, you dissolute wretch?” Gods, this is unbearable. The life of a man barely past his majority. He knocked again, a frantic drumbeat against the stillness. His chest heaved, a raw, burning sensation spreading through him. The rage was a flimsy shield against the humiliation, against the shame of being so profoundly, irrevocably drawn to this man. This architect of his internal chaos. The source of his gilded cage, now unfastened and exposed. Silence persisted, a mocking echo of his own desperation. A shiver coursed through him, a bone-deep cold. He pressed his ear to the wood, straining to hear any whisper, any sign of life. Nothing. Just the faint, distant hum of the Aerodrome’s great turbines. His vision blurred. He imagined Hadrian, smug and unrepentant, perhaps even now stirring from a drugged sleep, the scent of another woman clinging to him. The thought made him gag, a bitter taste rising in his throat. This was the sordid reality of Hadrian’s world, a world Alistair was inexplicably, disastrously drawn into. He wanted to flee, to turn and never look back at this gilded prison. Yet, his feet remained rooted. A desperate yearning, fierce and unwelcome, held him captive. He would wait. He always waited. He hated himself for it. He hated Hadrian more. Another breath, ragged and uneven. He raised his fist, ready to strike the door again, to shatter the quiet, to demand an answer from the man who held such a vile, potent sway over him. His knuckles ached. Then, a faint rustle from within. A soft creak. Alistair’s hand froze, poised mid-air. The silence stretched, pregnant with a terrible anticipation. A knot formed in his stomach, tightening, threatening to choke him entirely. He braced himself. The door shifted inward, a sliver of darkness widening into a gap. From the gloom, a figure emerged, tall and languid, framed by the dim light of the suite. Lord Hadrian Thorne, rumpled and dishevelled, his dark hair falling across his eyes, his silk dressing gown carelessly cinched. His gaze, heavy-lidded and dismissive, fell upon Alistair. “Finally,” Alistair spat, the word thick with suppressed fury, a tremor in his voice. “What do you want?” Thorne merely blinked, a slow, infuriating gesture. A ghost of a smile, knowing and cruel, touched his lips. “Darling Finch,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp, “You came.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, an assertion of power. It was a truth that settled like a lead weight in Alistair’s chest. He had come. He always did. His composure, so painstakingly maintained, crumbled in an instant. The gilded cage, indeed. And Alistair, the foolish bird, had flown straight back into it. The irony burned, a searing pain beneath his ribs. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, his eyes fixed on Hadrian’s. The raw, unsettling emotion, the illness, flared within him, bright and agonizing. “Open the door fully, you imbecile,” Alistair managed, his voice barely a whisper, yet laced with an undeniable command. “Let me in.” And with a final, languid sweep of his arm, Hadrian Thorne complied. The door swung open, revealing the opulent, yet disordered, interior of the suite. The scent of stale perfume and something else—something distinctly Hadrian—hit Alistair like a physical blow. He stepped across the threshold, into the lion’s den, into the heart of his own undoing. He was trapped. And he knew, with a horrifying certainty, that he wanted to be. ---

The Unbidden Summons