Some people—fools—might argue that Pierre had done nothing to deserve this.

That thought always made Gabriel laugh. Bitter, dark laughter, the kind that curled in the back of his throat and never quite reached his lips.

“Pierre had done nothing?” Gabriel scoffed.

Pierre existed because of the blood spilled by Alexandre Dupont. Every luxury he enjoyed—the vast estate, the exquisite food, the tailored clothes, the eager business partners who sought him out—all of it was built on the corpses of people like Gabriel’s family.

Pierre had never had to fight for any of it. Never had to suffer for it.

It had all been handed to him—wrapped in the scent of old money and privilege, soaked in the blood of those his father betrayed.

How could that be forgiven?

Gabriel’s fingers twitched, the edges of his nails digging into his palm. If it were up to him, Alexandre Dupont would have been the one to suffer first. Gabriel would have forced him to his knees, made him feel every ounce of agony he had inflicted upon others, made him watch as his world collapsed around him. But that bastard was long gone.

Snatched away too easily.

Killed not by Gabriel’s hands, not by the vengeance of the people he wronged, but by the paranoia of another tyrant—Maximilien Robespierre. A madman obsessed with betrayal, so fearful of being turned against that he ordered the deaths of those who had once stood beside him. Alexandre Dupont had been just another name on his list, another victim of the endless purges, his blood spilled by the very revolution he helped create.

And yet—Pierre still had everything.

His father’s sins were buried beneath the weight of time, but the wealth remained, the power remained, the comfort of a home untouched by true suffering remained.

How could Pierre ignorantly enjoy the wealth his father stole, never once questioning its origins?

Gabriel exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His mind felt hot, feverish, his blood humming with rage.

Then—just as quickly as it came—his anger cooled.

Because now, he had something new to work with.

Gabriel sat on the edge of his bed, candlelight flickering against the cold walls of his small room. His hands, normally steady, flexed slightly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as his mind reeled from what he had just learned.

Pierre had been with men before.

The revelation rattled something deep inside him, something he couldn’t quite name. Not because he cared about Pierre’s past or his desires—but because this changed everything.

For so long, Gabriel had crafted his revenge with meticulous care, adjusting and expanding it like a painter adding more strokes to an already dark masterpiece. The foundation was simple: Pierre needed to suffer. But the details? The details could always be improved because it was never enough.

And yet—for all his carefully laid plans—this was an angle he had never considered.

Pierre’s love for his wife had been absolute. So much so that Gabriel had assumed no one—not even a lover from his past—could have ever competed with what Nicolette had been to him. But if Pierre had once sought pleasure in the arms of men, then perhaps—just perhaps—although women could not compete, a man could still have a chance.

Gabriel’s lips curled into a cold, sharp smirk, amusement flickering behind his dark eyes.

Pierre was weak right now. Vulnerable. Lost in grief, clinging to anything that might numb the pain. And Gabriel had already become the only one Pierre could rely on.

But what if that reliance grew into something else?

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, mocking the very thought.

What if Gabriel took everything from Pierre—not just his home, his fortune, his children, his reputation—but his very sense of self?

What if Gabriel made Pierre trust him? Need him? Want him?

And then—what if he took that trust and crushed it?

Gabriel chuckled, low and cruel, his shoulders shaking with laughter that never quite reached his eyes.

Pierre was a fool. A naïve, golden-haired idiot who had never learned to doubt. Never learned to question what people truly wanted from him.

Pierre had never truly suffered before.

Not like Gabriel had.

Pierre had never had the things he loved ripped from his hands, stolen before he even had the chance to fight for them. He had never been forced to watch his entire world burn while he stood powerless, an unwanted witness to his own ruin.

Pierre had never been taught the true depths of loneliness, of despair, of betrayal.

But Gabriel?

Gabriel had known suffering too well, too early.

At eight, when other boys were still clinging to the last shreds of childhood, Gabriel had already lost everything.

A noble name meant nothing when it had been blackened by treason, when the very people who once praised his family turned their backs with the first swing of the guillotine. Wealth? That had been looted. Status? Erased. And a home? Gone, forever.

And what was left? Hunger.

Gabriel could still remember the cold that sank into his bones, the way his ribs pressed against his too-thin skin, his fingers trembling as he scavenged for food like a filthy street rat

At thirteen, just days after the only servant who had cared for him succumbed to illness, Gabriel sold himself for the first time. He had been starving.

It had been easy, in a way. He had learned quickly—when a rich man’s wife had pressed coins into his hand, when a drunk noble had traced fingers down his cheek, when a widow had pulled him into the shadows with promises of warmth and bread.

“You have a pretty face, boy.”

He had heard that phrase more times than he could count.

“Let me take care of you.”

Lies. All of it.

They didn’t want to take care of him. They wanted to use him. To take from him what had already been stolen, to reduce him to nothing but a warm body, a fleeting indulgence in the hands of men and women old enough to be his parents.

Gabriel had wanted to die. Many times.

But wanting something and having it were two quite different things.

So, he had learned how to survive. How to push through the filth and the disgust, how to let their hands roam while he counted seconds in his mind, how to make them believe he was willing, eager even.

And when the night was over, when they were done with him, Gabriel would take their money and walk away, numbed by it all.

He would never be that boy again. No. Gabriel had buried that boy. He had killed him. Now he was the one who takes.

Gabriel exhaled, his fingers tightening against the edge of his bed.

‘Pierre, that fool, had never known what it was like to be so desperate, so broken.’

Pierre, who had been given everything, who had been loved, cherished, adored, who had never once suffered in a way that truly mattered.

Gabriel’s lips curled into a cold, sharp smirk, amusement flickering behind his dark eyes.

But he would.

Gabriel would make sure of it.

***

Gabriel moved through the manor with practiced ease, his every step calculated, his every action deliberate. If he was to tear Pierre apart completely, he needed to build the perfect foundation first. And the first step? Ensuring that Pierre had only him.

It was easy—too easy—to keep Pierre dependent on him.

Every night, he dragged Pierre out of bed, stripped him of his soiled clothes, and wiped away the sweat and the stink of alcohol from his fevered skin. He made sure Pierre ate, shoving spoonfuls of soup past his lips when he was too drunk to lift a hand. He forced water down his throat, made him bathe, and pulled him back into bed when he stumbled to the floor in his drunken haze. Pierre muttered and cursed him all the while, but Gabriel never wavered.

He cleaned up the broken bottles Pierre shattered against the wall, the overturned furniture from his fits of grief. He held him up when his legs gave out beneath him, he forced the servants to keep the room warm when Pierre shivered from withdrawal, and when the nightmares took hold and Pierre thrashed in his sleep, Gabriel was the only one who remained by his side.

No one else dared to enter Pierre’s chambers. No one else could handle the mess he had become.

And that was precisely what Gabriel wanted.

Pierre needed to see him as his only source of stability, the one constant in a world that had fallen apart.

But that was only step one.

Gabriel exhaled slowly, straightening his coat as he made his way toward the nursery.

The next step was more… tedious. A burden, really. But necessary.

Pierre’s children. Gabriel had initially dismissed them as nothing more than insignificant obstacles, but now? They were the key. If Pierre had even a shred of reason left, he would eventually return to them. And when he did, Gabriel needed to be closer to them than Pierre himself.

If he did this right, the children would willingly abandon their father. And once they did, he would discard them just as easily—an orphanage would suffice.

But first, he had to begin the process of attachment.

The nursery was filled with the soft flicker of candlelight and the faint scent of lavender. The maids were bustling about, tending to the twins, who were barely two weeks old.

Gabriel stepped inside without hesitation, his presence immediately drawing the attention of the maids. They stilled for a moment, exchanging glances, but said nothing.

He moved toward the cribs, his sharp eyes scanning the infants. They were too young to acknowledge him, too unaware of anything beyond their own basic needs. Still, attachment had to start somewhere.

Without a word, he reached into the crib and carefully took the tiny hand of the baby girl. Her fingers twitched slightly, curling instinctively around his own. The grip was weak, barely there.

Minutes passed, and Gabriel remained still, watching them. They slept soundly, their small chests rising and falling in steady rhythm.

‘Useless, for now. But not for long.’If he wanted this to work, he needed to be more involved.

His gaze shifted toward one of the maids who was preparing fresh linens. “Teach me how to change a diaper.”

The woman nearly dropped the cloth in her hands, her eyes widening in disbelief.

“Pardon, Monsieur?”

Gabriel fixed her with a calm stare. “You heard me.”

The room fell into silence. The maids exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what to say. It was not a man’s role to care for infants. Such tasks were left to women—nurses, maids, mothers. But Gabriel was Gabriel. No one questioned him openly.

Finally, one of the older maids hesitated before stepping forward. “Of course, Monsieur,” she said carefully. “It’s not difficult, but… are you certain?”

Gabriel’s expression remained unreadable. “Show me.”

And so, they did.

Gabriel watched as the maid unwrapped the cloth from around the baby boy. The stench hit immediately, and he barely resisted the urge to grimace.

The maid wiped the baby clean before fastening a fresh cloth around his small body.

“Now you try,” she said, stepping aside.

Gabriel inhaled slowly, then crouched beside the crib. He unwrapped the damp cloth with precise, steady fingers, his expression unreadable as he worked. Nicolas squirmed slightly but made no sound.

The maid handed him a clean cloth. Gabriel took it without hesitation, positioning it carefully before securing it as he had seen.

‘Too loose.’

He frowned, adjusting the ties, making sure it was secure but not too tight.

But just as he finished tying the knot, the baby’s tiny face scrunched up—and then, suddenly, a sharp wail erupted from the baby’s throat.

Gabriel stiffened.

The sound was piercing and high. The baby’s little arms flailed, his legs kicking against the air as he screamed, his face as red as his hair, his distress echoing through the nursery.

The maids froze, their eyes widening.

Gabriel, for the first time in years, felt something cold coil in his chest—something alarmingly close to panic. His face, always so carefully controlled, flickered with the faintest sign of unease, his lips parting slightly as he stared at the crying infant in his arms.

One of the maids, Mathilde, quickly suppressed a laugh behind her hand before stepping forward. “You’ve tied it too tight, Monsieur,” she said, her voice laced with poorly concealed amusement.

Gabriel’s jaw twitched. Too tight? He had just made sure it was secure. How fragile were these things?

His fingers moved swiftly to loosen the knot. “There,” he muttered, adjusting the cloth.

But Nicolas didn’t stop crying. Gabriel felt his heart raising, while sweat formed over his forehead.

Mathilde cleared her throat, fighting back her laughter. “It is not just the diaper, Monsieur.”

Gabriel inhaled sharply. ‘This is ridiculous.’—he was not going to be undone by a two-week-old infant.

Still, he lifted the baby boy, cradling him in his arms as he had seen the maids do.

The crying continued.

Gabriel’s grip tensed slightly. This was not working.

“Rock him,” Mathilde instructed, amusement still evident in her voice. “Like this.”

Gabriel gritted his teeth but obeyed. Nothing.

For the first time in years, Gabriel felt something foreign settle inside his chest—anxiety. He could feel his pulse quicken, his skin warming uncomfortably as the baby continued to wail in his arms.

How can something so small be so noisy?

And then—just as Gabriel was considering handing the baby off and admitting defeat—the crying softened into sniffles. The baby shifted slightly, his tiny fingers curling against Gabriel’s chest.

Gabriel exhaled, his shoulders loosening. Finally.

But before he could fully relax, something warm and wet dribbled onto his shoulder.

Gabriel froze.

Mathilde’s lips twitched. “Ah,” she said, covering her mouth with a hand, “it seems he’s taken a liking to you, Monsieur.”

Gabriel glanced down and—yes. The baby had drooled on him. Saliva. Normally, Gabriel would recoil, with utter disgust. But right now, he was simply grateful the child had stopped crying.

Mathilde extended her arms. “You can give him to me now.”

Gabriel didn’t move. His grip tightened just slightly, hesitation flickering across his face. Would the baby start crying again?

Mathilde noticed. A small, knowing laugh escaped her lips. “He won’t,” she assured him as if she could read his thoughts.

Gabriel hesitated for another second before—very slowly, as if handling fragile glass—he handed Nicolas over.

As soon as the baby left his arms, Gabriel straightened, his face slipping back into its usual mask of cold detachment.

Mathilde, however, was still smiling. “Well,” she mused, cradling the now-peaceful infant, “I never thought I’d see you nervous.”

Gabriel shot her a sharp look, but for once, he didn’t have a retort. In his mind, there was something more important than a reply to Mathilde’s words. He was thinking about how it was a strange thing—holding something so fragile, something so small. Not too long after Gabriel pushed the thought aside.

The maids still looked bewildered, whispering among themselves.

“A man changing diapers…” one muttered.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” another agreed.

“But maybe, if Monsieur Gabriel starts caring for the babies, then perhaps Monsieur Pierre will follow.”

Gabriel pretended not to hear them. ‘They are fools.’ He thought.