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“What’s going on?” asked Pryde as he and Lucien hurried towards them.

“Mr. Rose tampered with the pistols!” cried Dorian.

Pryde, looking abashed for the first time, frowned. He ran his hand though his thick brown hair. “Mr. Rose wouldn’t do anything dishonorable. Would you, Mr. Rose?”

But doubt tinged Pryde’s voice.

“Never,” said Rose. “I was only admiring the metalwork, which is quite exquisite. I’ve never seen such beautiful weapons in my life.”

“I thank you,” said Pryde. “But⁠—”

Rose lowered his eyes in regret. “I should not have gone near them. If you wish, Rath, we can meet tomorrow morning and take the weapons of your choice.”

“I am not Rath yet!” growled Dorian. “My title was not yet officially awarded to me. Goddamn it to hell. I just want this done with.”

Truth was, he needed this relief, this distraction of violence, after learning of his father’s death.

“We will inspect the pistols carefully, of course,” said Lucien.

“Of course,” said Pryde.

Lucien and Pryde meticulously inspected each pistol, peering down the barrels and examining every mechanism. Dorian watched them like a hawk, ready to scrutinize any sign of foul play.

Finally, Pryde nodded to Lucien. “All seems in order.”

They loaded the pistols carefully, ramming powder and ball down each muzzle. Pryde handed one to Rose, who had gone pale, his angelic façade cracking. Lucien passed the other to Dorian, who gripped it tightly, the pounding rage in his chest only growing.

Dorian and Mr. Rose took their positions, standing back-to-back.

“On my count,” said Pryde solemnly. “Twenty paces on go. One…two…three…”

Dorian and Rose strode forward, puffs of breath visible in the cold morning air. At twenty paces, Pryde shouted, “Go!”

Whipping around, Dorian raised his pistol, adrenaline surging through his veins. Rose stood facing him, arm extended, face white with fear.

Dorian fired. A deafening crack split the air. Agonizing pain exploded in Dorian’s hand. The pistol ruptured, metal and wood shredding his flesh. He howled, clutching his mangled hand. Blood poured over his fingers. Ringing filled his ears.

Through the smoke he saw Rose frozen. The bastard had sabotaged him after all. Rage wiped Dorian’s mind clear of thought. Ignoring the maimed wreck of his hand, he charged Rose.

“Dorian!” cried Lucien, but he didn’t heed the call this time. He couldn’t feel the pain anymore, just the warmth around his hand, just the red, scorching fury in his body, the all-consuming need to destroy the man.

“Stop!” cried Pryde. “Halt!”

He couldn’t even if he tried. His father was dead. He was free and yet he would never be. And here was a dishonorable man in front of him, his quivering pistol pointed at Dorian, taking shaky steps back.

Rose should just fire and be done with it. Because Dorian was wrath itself, unstoppable, punishing, furiously cold.

Dorian reached him.

He didn’t remember what he did. There was the pounding of fists. His blood smeared over John’s face and clothes.

And then a blast of a gun, somehow in both their hands. But his finger was on the trigger…

Chest heaving, agony coursing through his ruined hand, and still furious, Dorian glared down at Rose’s corpse.

He’d just killed a man. Taken a life. Dozens of duels, and this was the first time he had actually murdered someone.

He dropped the pistol on the ground with a quiet thud. Lucien and Pryde ran to stand on either side of him.