Page 4 of Every Eligible Man

All three of us tense automatically. Even the animals go quiet. It’s a conditioned response, years of bracing for whatever fresh hell our stepfamily was about to deliver.

Baron Grimwald's biological sons strut across the yard like peacocks who've learned to walk upright.

Brant, the elder, is tall and blond and conventionally handsome in that "I've never worked a day in my life and it shows" way. Garrick is slightly shorter, slightly dumber, and compensates for both by being twice as mean. They’re dressed to the nines tonight, silk doublets, powdered wigs, enough cologne to make a skunk gag.

Bastard's head swivels toward them with the slow, deliberate menace of a creature selecting its next victim.

"Not yet," Slade says, putting a hand on the goose's neck. "Let them talk first."

"Oh, look," Brant drawls, surveying us with theatrical disdain. "The livestock is gathering. How fitting, since you all smell like you've been rolling in it."

"Probably because your father makes us roll in it," Slade replies, voice sweet as poisoned honey. "Daily. For years. Almost like he's compensating for raising two sons who couldn't find their own cocks with a map and a lantern."

Garrick's face reddens. "Watch your mouth. We're going to the ball tonight. Lady Cinder's ball. You know, the Lady Cinder? The one looking for a husband?"

My ears prick up despite myself. Lady Cinder. Even out here in the shit-covered countryside, we've heard the rumors. Beautiful. Powerful. Rich as sin. And apparently impossible to please.

Wreck drops down from the roof edge, hanging by his hands, suddenly interested. Susan and Gerald perk up on his shoulders, whiskers twitching.

"Wait, the rich lady who keeps rejecting everyone? What's the deal with that?"

Brant puffs up like a bullfrog in silk. "The deal is that Lady Cinder has announced she's tired of, how did she put it? 'Soft-handed princes who finish before she's started.' She wants a man who can actually perform."

Something hot and reckless shifts in my chest.

"A real man," Brant continues, sneering at us. "Someone with stamina. Someone who can satisfy her... thoroughly."

"So naturally she'll pick one of you two," I say flatly. "With your legendary stamina. Brant, didn't you cry last time a woman touched you?"

"That was one time, and she had cold hands."

"And Garrick," Slade adds, grinning now, "I heard the milkmaid laughing for ten minutes after she saw you naked. Something about a frightened earthworm?"

Garrick lunges forward, but Brant grabs his collar.

"Ignore them. They're jealous." Brant straightens his doublet, composure returning to smug. "They'll never even see the inside of that ball. No invitation, no clothes, and frankly, no chance. Lady Cinder wants nobility. Breeding. Class." He looks pointedly at my shit-covered boots. "Not whatever that is."

"She wants a man who can fuck," Wreck calls down cheerfully. "You just said so. Pretty sure that eliminates both of you on a technicality."

Brant's face goes purple. "You'll be mucking out the cesspit for a month for that."

"Worth it."

Baron Grimwald's voice bellows from the house. "BOYS! The carriage is ready! Stop wasting time on the animals!"

Brant smooths his doublet one final time. "That's us. Off to secure the fortune and title you three will never have. Try not to choke on your own inadequacy while we're gone."

We watch them climb into the gilded carriage. Watch it roll away toward the distant castle lights.

Silence settles over the farm.

Then Squeak's tiny voice pipes up from the hayloft.

"Boss. Boss. Did you hear that? She wants a man who can perform."

"She wants stamina," Nibbles adds breathlessly.

"She wants to get fucked right," Twitch squeaks, bouncing so hard he nearly falls off the beam. "Boss, that's you. That's all three of you! You're literally built for this!"