So, why things had turned out this way, Ash couldn’t quite understand it himself.
The path from initial complicated tolerance to burning resentment felt convoluted, a twisted knot of intentions and betrayals he hadn’t yet untangled.
Had Ash hated Owen from the moment he first saw him?
Of course, in a way.
He was indeed the bastard who had seemingly come to steal Ash’s place, to usurp his birthright, to cast a long shadow over his very existence within the Mills Family.
Yet, the initial surge of animosity wasn’t truly a hatred born at first sight, not in its purest, most venomous form.
Ash was pragmatic enough to acknowledge that the fact of Owen’s birth, his status as a bastard, wasn’t really his fault.
Ash had always expected, seeing his father’s frequent infidelities and the casual way he disregarded the sanctity of his marriage vows, that one day someone would inevitably appear on the doorstep, a living testament to the Duke’s indiscretions, declaring, ‘I’m your brother.’
It was an unpleasant inevitability he had mentally prepared for, a dark secret of the ducal household.
His father, the Duke of Mills, shouldn’t have done that; he shouldn’t have been so careless with his affections, so public with his transgressions.
Ash shouldn’t have been put in that inherently awkward and vulnerable position, forced to confront the living embodiment of his father’s flaws.
So, initially, he had merely gotten angry at the circumstances, at his father’s indiscretion, at the disruption to his perfectly ordered world. But then, the anger had shifted, solidified, and settled, a slow burn that felt entirely justified in his young heart.
“He’s the one who hated me first!”
Ash practically yelled, a burst of raw indignation escaping him.
He could still remember the frigid contempt in Owen’s eyes, even when his demeanor was perfectly composed.
His Master wore a blank expression, his usual enigmatic gaze holding no judgment, but also no immediate understanding.
It was infuriating.
“No way?”
Ash scoffed, a fire burning within him, fueled by years of suppressed frustration.
“Everyone is deceived by Owen’s calm demeanor. He’s not as good a person as he appears on the surface, Master. Not even close.”
The injustice of it all still rankled.
Owen, with his impeccable manners and quiet intelligence, was a master of manipulation, cloaking his true nature beneath a veneer of humility and grace.
“Master, you’re just like my father. You don’t believe me! You never do!”
Ash accused, his voice rising, a familiar lament.
“All his calmness is just an act, a meticulously rehearsed performance. You have no idea how truly terrible, how incredibly petty, how utterly despicable he really is beneath that polished exterior.”
Ash clenched his fists, wishing he could somehow peel back Owen’s skin and expose the ugly truth.
“Hmm. I’ve never praised Owen Mills’ character, but…”
His Master began, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.
“You haven’t praised my character either!”
Ash interrupted, suddenly feeling defensive, the comparison unfair.
He might be chaotic, but he was real.
“You’re clever,” his Master conceded, the amusement softening into something more akin to a fond exasperation.
“No, seriously…”
Ash grumbled, his earlier outrage momentarily forgotten in the face of his Master’s evasiveness.
He glared at his Master with narrowed eyes, trying to discern the true meaning behind that infuriatingly serene expression.
His Master was smiling, his half-closed eyes opening a little wider, crinkling at the corners.
It was a subtle shift, a rare display of genuine warmth.
Seeing that rare, almost tender smile, Ash’s anger, which had been boiling just moments before, gradually subsided.
It was a strange effect his Master had on him, an inexplicable calm that settled over his tumultuous emotions.
He leaned into his Master’s embrace, allowing himself to be comforted.
Forgetting what he had been doing just moments ago, his mind shifting from the intricacies of intimacy to the simple need to confide, he began to complain, his words tumbling out in a rush.
“You think I’m the more emotional one, don’t you? The dramatic one, the one who always overreacts? I know you do. You and Father, both of you. But I’m telling you, I’m not!”
Ash protested, a genuine hurt in his voice.
He was tired of being misjudged.
“You’re right,” his Master agreed, surprisingly, his voice a soft rumble against Ash’s ear.
“He was annoying from the very beginning. From the moment he stepped foot in this castle, he was just… annoying,” Ash reiterated, emphasizing the last word with a fierce huff.
“I thought so,” his Master said, a quiet chuckle escaping him.
“Just listen to me!”
Ash demanded, a small, frustrated punch landing softly on his Master’s chest.
His Master’s chest heaved as he chuckled softly, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through Ash’s ear.
“First of all, he’s my brother, isn’t he? Or at least, he’s supposed to be,” Ash began, the frustration in his voice tinged with a philosophical resignation.
His Master remained silent, waiting.
“He is my father’s child, after all. No matter if he’s a bastard, no matter the circumstances of his birth, he still deserves to be treated as a young master in this family. That’s his right, his inherent due. Even if he’s a wicked wolf cub who came in with evil intentions, his heart shrouded in darkness, I tried to make sure he got what was due to him. I tried to uphold the family’s honor, even if Father seemed not to.”
Ash spoke with a conviction that brooked no argument.
“Hmm?”
His Master hummed, a low, noncommittal sound.
“The servants ignoring him wasn’t right, was it? Treating him like dirt, whispering behind his back, pretending he didn’t exist. How dare anyone ignore anyone else in this house? Everyone deserves basic respect, even if they’re… Owen.”
Ash’s voice rose with genuine indignation, recalling the palpable tension in the castle during Owen’s early days.
The atmosphere had been thick with unspoken contempt from the staff, a silent boycott of the new arrival.
“Oh…” his Master murmured, a note of understanding finally entering his voice.
Ash huffed, a breath of lingering frustration.
“The fact that he quickly found his place in the family, that he gained everyone’s favor so rapidly, was all thanks to my help! My tireless efforts! I treated him like a brother, even when he was difficult. I actively vouched for him!”
Owen, of course, had been annoying from the very moment he arrived at the castle, with his quiet intensity and unnerving politeness.
He seemed to effortlessly charm everyone, which only made Ash more suspicious.
But despite his initial vexation, Owen was also the first brother Ash had ever had, a real, living sibling.
What’s more, he wasn’t even a younger brother but an older one, which oddly relieved Ash of any potential burdens of mentorship.
This meant his father had caused trouble, had engaged in his infamous infidelities, even before meeting Ash’s mother, long before Ash himself was born.
This fact, surprisingly, made Owen less of a threat to Ash’s mother’s memory, and for Ash, this was actually preferable, a twisted silver lining.
So, his ill feelings towards Owen, though present, didn’t last long in that initial period.
So Ash was, simply put, intensely curious about Owen.
He was also the only peer in the entire castle whose status was somewhat similar to Ash’s, offering a potential companion in an otherwise solitary existence.
There was Tyllian Meyner as a peer friend, a companion in his studies and mischief.
But Tyllian had always been a more irritating fellow when they were younger, constantly lecturing Ash, always upholding the rules.
At that time, Ash even wondered if Tyllian considered him a friend at all.
It seemed more like he treated Ash as a young master he didn’t want to serve, a troublesome charge rather than a cherished peer.
Their relationship had always been complex, a push and pull of duty and exasperation.
Ash had no intention of begging for friendship, of lowering himself to such a desperate level, but he also couldn’t stand being bored.
Boredom was a far more terrifying prospect than a difficult sibling.
All the teachers who usually kept him occupied, filling his days with lessons in etiquette, history, and fencing, had suddenly left.
His schedule, once meticulously planned and overflowing, was now completely empty, a vast, echoing void.
Those teachers, all of them, had gone to Owen, dispatched by his father to educate the new potential heir.
Ash wondered, with a cynical smirk, if Owen truly enjoyed all those lessons, if he relished the endless hours of study. He was convinced, with absolute certainty, ‘No way.’
Owen was acting, of course.
Even for Ash, who had grown up as the duke’s only son from an early age, accustomed to the rigorous demands of ducal education, it had been a demanding schedule, bordering on torture.
How could an uneducated bastard, raised outside the refined confines of the castle, possibly adapt so quickly, so seamlessly?
It defied logic.
Ash believed, with a youthful arrogance, that both the teachers and his father would soon return, humbled and defeated, realizing, ‘Only you, Ash, with your innate genius, can truly inherit the family.’
‘But then what happens to him?’
A new, unsettling thought began to prick at Ash’s conscience.
If he were to be recognized again as the undisputed heir, if his father were to discard Owen, what would become of him?
Would he be cast out, left to fend for himself in the cruel world outside the castle walls?
His father wouldn’t have brought the bastard here just because he favored him.
Even if Owen had pleased his father with his seemingly perfect demeanor, there were other, less disruptive ways to acknowledge him as a son and raise him outside the castle, away from Ash’s sight and mind.
There was no rational reason to bring him into the castle unless he had some other, more insidious use, some strategic purpose that Ash couldn’t yet fathom.
Ash found himself lingering near Owen’s study, near the dining hall, near the training grounds – anywhere he might encounter him.
He felt a strange compulsion to understand Owen, to unravel the mystery of his sudden appearance and his unnerving composure.
He also wondered why Owen had been so annoying at their very first meeting, that cold, unsettling politeness that had grated on Ash’s nerves.
Ash simply wanted to know Owen.
Whether he was a bastard or not, he was still his brother.
He was family.
He had genuinely tried, in those early days, to forge a connection, to bridge the divide.
There was a time when Ash had such cringeworthy, saccharine thoughts, a brief period of youthful idealism.
This was not long after he had sent his mother away to a distant manor, a painful memory that still brought a lump to his throat.
He had been desperate for connection, for family, for anything to fill the void.
‘I was so young and naive then,’ Ash thought, a self-deprecating sigh escaping him.
He could almost feel his cheeks burn with embarrassment at his past earnestness.
But there were good times too, in the chaotic early days of Owen’s arrival.
Their relationship certainly wasn’t the worst, not yet.
There were moments of shared laughter, of tentative camaraderie.
“But do you know what he was really like? Do you know the lengths he went to? Listen to this,” Ash urged, his voice dropping conspiratorially, pulling his Master further into the story.
“I’m listening,” his Master murmured, his tone indicating a patient interest.
Ash slapped his Master’s chest again, a playful gesture this time, not a frustrated one.
“We went to see the festival, in the city. Just the two of us! And we got into a ridiculous fight with some weirdos, some unruly commoners. I told them to apologize, politely, after they bumped into me and nearly sent me sprawling, and what did they say? ‘Get lost,’ I think? Or something equally disrespectful. Anyway, they were uncouth guys who didn’t even know how to apologize, common ruffians with no manners! What was I supposed to do?”
He subtly raised his chin, a truly aristocratic posture that reflected his deep-seated pride and inherited sense of entitlement.
He expected deference, even from strangers.
The correct answer, from a noble’s perspective, was ‘to display a noble’s dignity, to walk away from such vulgarity.’
His Master, surprisingly, replied, “Well. It would have been better if you hadn’t gone to the festival in the first place, given your volatile nature. Did you even have the Duke’s permission to go out into the city?”
His Master’s voice was laced with a knowing skepticism.
“Master. Of course not,” Ash admitted, a slight flush creeping up his neck.
“Do you think I would have gotten into a fight if I had official permission? If I had the ducal guards with me, those louts wouldn’t have dared! And Father never allows things like that, you know he doesn’t. He’s always so strict about us staying within the castle walls, or at least, staying within my castle walls.”
“You knew well enough and still caused trouble,” his Master observed, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“Listen to me, Master! I wasn’t the one who caused trouble!”
Ash protested, indignant.
“It was those ruffians! And Owen!”
“Oh, really?”
His Master feigned surprise, his eyes still half-closed, but a flicker of amusement dancing within them.
“You just thought, ‘It seems like he’s already caused trouble, he’s just spinning a tale,’ didn’t you? But I didn’t! I was confident I could sneak home, get back into the castle without a soul knowing. But then Owen was there, in the very alley where those thugs lured me. Coincidence? I think not!”
Ash leaned closer, his voice full of suspicion.
“Oh…”
Finally, the desired reaction, a soft exclamation of intrigue. Ash nodded, triumphant.
“Exactly. And he was suspiciously wearing a cloak too, trying to hide his identity. But it was no use! He was dressed too finely. Anyway, so he got involved.”
“Ah?” his Master prompted, clearly entertained.
“Wearing such fine clothes, even under a cloak, it was obvious his identity would be revealed. Those guys, seeing his expensive attire, picked a fight with him too, not just me, because he was a young master! So, I tried to escape. I went into the alley, thinking I could just slip away, and saw there wasn’t just one or two thugs, but seven of them! A whole gang! But then Owen, that idiot, lunged in! He threw the first punch! I couldn’t just run away and leave him, could I? Even if he was annoying, he was still my brother, and those were unfair odds! So we fought, two against seven. It was madness!”
“Good heavens. That’s incredible,” his Master murmured, his voice laced with mock awe.
“Do you know what’s even more incredible? We won! We beat them all!”
Ash exclaimed, his eyes shining with the memory of their unlikely victory.
“Oh,” his Master chimed in, perfectly playing along, a soft, encouraging sound. Ash lifted his chin again, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
The excitement of that moment, the adrenaline of the fight, resurfaced with vivid clarity.
People often make mistakes.
They think that noble young masters are weak, coddled, incapable of defending themselves.
While that might be true for children from ordinary wealthy families, soft and pampered, it certainly didn’t apply to Ash.
The Mills Ducal Family had always prided itself on its martial prowess, its children raised to be capable, if not always willing, warriors.
All children of the Mills Ducal Family learned swordsmanship, from a young age, rigorously. Although a duke should ideally never have to draw a sword in public, their strength and skill were foundational to their authority.
The difference between being able to defend oneself in an emergency and not being able to is significant, a matter of life and death, even for those born to privilege.
The thugs who underestimated Ash and Owen, daring to attack two noble young masters, were all beaten to a pulp, their swagger quickly replaced by groans and bruises.
Ash felt a fierce triumph at having corrected their misconception about noble weakness, and…
“We got caught by the city guard,” Ash admitted, his voice deflating slightly.
The exhilaration of victory had been short-lived.
“Oh dear,” his Master murmured, a sound of polite sympathy.
“Someone reported us. Some busybody, probably from a window overlooking the alley, reported that there was a massive fight in the alley. So, we were apprehended by the guards and eventually dragged back to the castle, utterly humiliated, but guess what? Only I got scolded by Father! No, it’s absolutely absurd, I tell you! Do you know how well Owen can spin a story? He said he saw me sneaking out of the castle, that he was worried about me, and followed me out of brotherly concern! Without even blinking, that audacious liar! And Father believed him! Seriously. Anyone would think we were inseparable brothers, bound by genuine affection, not grudges and rivalry! What a joker, that Owen is. A true manipulator.”
“Oh?”
His Master’s eyes, which had been half-closed, were now fully open, gleaming with an unusual intensity.
He was listening to Ash’s story with an expression of keen, almost fascinated interest, leaning forward slightly.
Huh?
Is this really that amusing?
Ash wondered, bewildered by his Master’s reaction.
Though, he had to admit, he did tell the story quite entertainingly, with all the dramatic flair it deserved.
Ash had long given up trying to understand what truly interested his Master. His tastes were simply too peculiar.
He finished his story, a sigh escaping him.
“That’s the kind of guy he is. He causes trouble himself, then uses me to get out of it, manipulating everyone along the way. He’s despicable.”
“You certainly lead an interesting life, don’t you, Ash?”
His Master offered his impression, his tone appreciative.
Ash couldn’t understand why that was the conclusion, why his Master found such a tale of injustice so fascinating.
“Did you even listen properly?”
Ash challenged, disbelief coloring his voice.
“Of course. Your sibling dynamic is far more intriguing than I thought. A true drama unfolding within the ducal walls.”
“I don’t think you listened at all!”
Ash retorted, frustration bubbling up again.
He half-rose, ready to argue further, to shake his Master into truly understanding.
But then something hard pressed against his backside, pushing him down gently.
What on earth was this…?
“Now that you’ve rested enough, how about putting your mouth to use?” his Master murmured, his voice a low, commanding growl.
Before Ash could even utter a shocked ‘uh,’ his body was flipped over with surprising speed and strength.
Just moments ago, he had been face-to-face with his Master, complaining and sharing his frustrations.
But now, what he saw looming before him was a stiff, erect penis, undeniably hard.
Ash had no idea what it had done to get so incredibly hard; it had barely reacted, if at all, when Ash was diligently sucking it earlier, had it?
This sudden arousal, after his Master’s earlier exhaustion, was baffling and frustrating.
Ash’s head was shoved directly into his Master’s groin, the scent of him immediately overpowering.
‘Again?!’
The thought screamed in Ash’s mind, a wave of despair washing over him.
Absolutely nothing was going according to plan.
His grand scheme to initiate a “normal” intimate encounter, to teach his Master how to be a regular person, was utterly failing.
Ash felt a strong conviction that sucking it would yield absolutely no personal gain, no escape, no advantage in his current predicament. But he had no choice but to begin his oral ministrations, swallowing his bitterness along with the burgeoning hardness.
For one, his Master had already begun to knead Ash’s buttocks, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.
And then, with an insistent force, he spread Ash’s buttock cleavage, exposing his most sensitive area.
Gulp…’I’m going to lose my mind…’
The thought echoed in Ash’s mind, a desperate mantra, as he felt the familiar pressure, the inevitable surrender.