The lights went off, and in the sudden darkness, Lord Jethro heard Grey's quiet voice, steady but low.
"They're gone."
Jethro heard him clearly, but he couldn't bring himself to come out. He stayed where he was, pressed beneath the bed, his body rigid, his thoughts tangled.
He hated this.
He hated moments where control slipped from his grasp. He hated the unfamiliar burn of embarrassment creeping up his spine, hated knowing that for once, he wasn't composed, wasn't untouchable, wasn't above the situation.
He hated how his heart was racing.
He hated the awareness of his own vulnerability, how exposed he felt, how easily something as simple as Grey's presence could throw him off balance and leave him stripped of authority.
Right now, he knew the truth even if he refused to say it aloud: he did not have full control over himself. Not when it came to Grey.
And that terrified him.
