He glares.

…Miss Edwina is watching.

He forces a saccharine smile, nods his head in Voltur’s direction, and waits for him to leave.

Lord Bridgerton keeps looking at her!

She knows there is supposed to have been some sort of problem with the Viscount and the Duke, but Lady Danbury has been very quiet about the whole thing. She is sure it is exaggerated. 

She ought to see for herself. Perhaps the Viscount will appreciate her support?

"Lord Bridgerton," she enthuses, curtsying. "Your Grace! It is good to see you again."

She smiles shyly at Lord Bridgerton. 

Great.

As if he’s letting his future bride near that caricature of a Duke.

“Miss Edwina,” he bows low to her, the perfect rugged gentleman that Voltur could never be. “Forgive the interruption. May I have your next dance?”

Oh!

"Of course, my lord." She curtsies. "Your Grace, excuse me."

She focusses very hard on proceeding sedately to the dance floor, and not skipping. 

"Well. That could have gone worse."

...Then he realises that he spoke out loud. 

"Indeed, Your Grace. It could have."

A letter addressed to Voltur arrived at his estate later that night, after he has stumbled home wine-drunk.

Meet me.

There is no signature.

He sighs. 

There's only one man who could be that dramatic. 

He turns, calls back his driver, and heads backn into town. 

"Lord Ophel."

A young man, some lord that Voltur vaguely remembers being introduced to, brushes past him at the entrance, disheveled. He doesn’t so much as look at Voltur, escaping the elf’s estate with his coat in his arms.

Ophel sits in the parlour, fully dressed, though his deep red finery is now draped loosely over his shoulders.

“You came.”

A strange lurch of anger passes over him. 

He takes a deep breath. 

"I did."

He stares at the elf for a long moment. Had he been watching, truly, all night?

He smiles gracefully and stands. “Come with me.”

He leads him through winding passages of his house, until they arrive in a strange, empty room.

Voltur frowns at him in confusion. "Why did you wish to meet me?"

“I kept my promise,” he breathes, stepping closer to him. “I did not take my eyes off you all night. I watched your every move. Your every dance.”

The door shuts softly behind him. He is close now, so close to Voltur. 

“Do you have anything you wish to say?”

His pulse thunders in his ears. 

He'd hated it. Most of it. 

"Did I? Make any mistakes?"

His smile turns cold.

Suddenly, Voltur feels the cold weight of metal clamp around his wrists. The elf tugs sharply on a hidden chain, and the Duke is brought hard to his knees.

He stands above him. “You need to learn what to do with your hands, brute.”

He clenches his fists hard as the fire ignites in his veins, feeling the cold weight of the metal strain against his muscles, and his head snaps up to stare at the elf. 

He opens his mouth, but no words come out, just a rough gasp. 

The elf’s head tilts back. He peers down at him uninterestedly through long eyelashes.

The chain is fed through a hidden loop in the ground – Voltur’s hands graze the polished wood. 

“Do not worry. These chains are of dwarven make. Even one of your strength cannot easily break free.”

The chains might be dwarfsteel but the wood they're hammered into isn't, the trick is-

He meets those sky-coloured eyes. 

His hands fall limp. 

A rosy flush passes across his face. 

Good boy.

“Let it not be said that I am an unfair master. There was improvement, certainly, in one day. You learn quickly, when your life depends on it.” He purrs, bending forward. “And yet you still found ways to embarrass yourself, did you not?”

He tugs again, forcing him lower down. “What were you doing, scratching like an animal?”

Wait, what? Scratching?

Oh. 

"I was not," he says lowly. "That was a matter of... some importance."

The bag of holding twitches, and that tiny hair-thin crack grows longer-