“It certainly did not look that way. Tell me, what possible reason could you have had?” He taunts. “Ha. I have not even begun to address your manners in the dance.”

The chain is pulled again, sharply, and Voltur’s cheek lands hard against that floor. The elf watches him with a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

“I like you on your knees, little bull. Perhaps this will teach you how to bow properly.”

His muscles are trembling, sweat breaking out across his skin. Everything is so sharp. Heat pools in him.

He ignores the distant throbbing of his cock where it's trapped against his ridiculous ducal trousers and grinds out, "I need to know how to render a formal apology."

Endure, hold, hold, it doesn't matter what you feel just hold-

“Mm, you wish to make amends with the Bridgertons? You still wish to see their daughter, after all the women you danced with tonight?” He presses the heel of his boot into Voltur’s cheek and grinds it down. “Little whore.”

He laughs shortly, pressing harder. “Disappointing. I would have thought the hero of Clensing Downe would have put up more of a fight.”

- 

Every muscle in his body tenses with effort and then-

-like in that final terrified moment when he plunged the blade into the monster's heart-

There's a tortured creak and then a loud splintering noise as the chain is ripped intact out of the floorboards, sending the elf staggering, and he rolls to his knees, crouched with his teeth bared like a wolf broken loose. 

Surprise – and – is the elf a little scared? – flashes across his face for a moment, but he controls his expression as quickly as he catches his balance. He steps back gracefully, steadying himself.

He has heard tales of the strength of men. This… He hadn’t truly expected it. Not really, he’d thought the Duke would fight back if sufficiently provoked but– the floorboards–

Regardless, Voltur remains in chains. He is fighting back, that is good, that means he’s scared. Ophel just needs to step carefully.

He holds out a hand, laughing breathlessly. “Easy there, little bull.”

He growls. 

He hasn't felt alive like this in months. The elf seems to glow with an inner light, and he-

He's heard how spellbinding the elves can be, but he physically cannot draw his gaze away from the gentle curve of the elf's form, the natural arch his body makes when he stands still. 

"Tell me what I must do."

His heart beats into his ears, but he stands his ground. Animal and trainer.

“Ask me the way I taught you.”

The muscles stand out like cords on his forearms. 

"...Lord Ophel. Will you tell me how I might go about apologising properly?"

It makes it easier, swallowing his pride for the sake of the peace, that he can have this as well. 

The elf rakes his eyes over his frame, taking in every inch of the panting sweating mess that he created. The corners of his lips curl upwards.

“You may begin by apologising to me,” he gestures with his a tilt of his head to the shattered floor, “for inflicting wanton destruction upon my home.”

"...I'm sorry." It's like the world is blossoming around him, mad possibilities, his hands are bound but he could still seize the elf by the throat and have him-

Ophel dares to get close, stepping towards where Voltur remains crouched, wild-eyed. Standing tall, he drags his knuckles gently over the man’s cheek, where a bruise in the shape of his heel is beginning to form. 

“Not good enough.” 

He slaps him, hard, with the back of his hand.

He rolls a little with the blow so the elf won't hurt his hand. 

"I'm sorry."

Ophel catches him by the hair, tugging it back to force Voltur to meet his gaze look at him. He bends down to meet his height, mere inches away. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

"I don't KNOW," he growls suddenly, his eyes hard. 

“You want the Bridgertons to accept your clumsy words? An apology means little without the promise of action,” he is quick to hiss in return. “Either you pay for the floorboards to be fixed and explain to some poor soul how you damaged them in the first place, or you put them back together, piece by piece, with your bare fucking hands.”

"What?"

It's like being hit with a bucket of cold water. He's abruptly aware that he's crouching like this with these silly chains on him - he stands up straight. You can't just put splintered floorboards back together. Maybe elves can, who knows. But-

"Are you saying I need to offer money? I have a dukedom now," and a dragon's hoard, but he's keeping that one quiet, "that doesn't signify."

There he is.

“No. Think, little brute. Bring more than just your sentiments with you when you approach the people you hurt. Take flowers for the ladies, listen to their grievances and offer to amend whatever harm you wrought them. Express the sincerity of your intentions towards Miss Eloise, and follow through. Tomorrow, you will place yourself in their hands. Do you understand me?”

"...I see." That... doesn't not make sense. By the standards of the ton. 

His intentions towards Eloise? He's known the girl for one day. ...That's not how they see things, is it.

Oh, gods. 

"...And what of the Viscount?"

“He is driven only by the desire to protect his family. If they accept your remorse, and you abide by any condition he imposes, the Viscount may soften his heart towards you.” He answers patiently, taking Voltur’s wrists. “It may help if Miss Edwina is present. May luck be on your side, Your Grace.”

There is a click and the shackles fall to the ground.

"...Thank you, Lord Ophel."

He inclines his head and turns and leaves sedately and perfectly normally, sits perfectly still in his carriage on the way home, walks perfectly normal into his townhouse, and waits until he is sealed in the privacy of his chambers with a tumbler of whisky before he breaks down. 

What the fuck. 

The next day, as ready as he will ever be, he presents himself at Bridgerton House. 

He has acquired lots of flowers. 

It is Hyacinth’s excited voice that alerts her.

“It is the Duke!” Her sister cries, pointing out of the window. “The Duke has come with flowers!”

Eloise slams her book shut and rushes to the window, her eyes wide. Oh, gods oh gods oh gods–

“Do you think he’s brought any for me?” Hyacinth asks happily.

“Why would he bring you any?” Gregory snipes back, much to her irritation. 

“Break it up, you two.” He chastises them, but pushes them both out of the way to peer out of the window himself.