I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 23: The Staircase

The walk back was different. Lighter. Abel’s hand found Orion’s again, not out of need or fear this time, but because he wanted to hold it. His thumb rubbed slow circles on the back of Orion’s hand as they walked. Orion let him, the simple contact a warm anchor in the fading day.

They were both quiet, carrying the peace of the meadow with them like a shared secret. Orion could still feel the ghost of Abel’s kiss on his cheek, a soft brand. He glanced at Abel, who was smiling faintly at nothing, lost in some happy thought. For a moment, the grim stone walls of Valerian Manor seemed less like a prison and more like just... walls.

That feeling shattered the moment they stepped into the main entrance hall.

Ashford was waiting. Or rather, he was positioned. He stood halfway up the grand staircase that swept up from the marble-floored hall, leaning casually against the polished banister. In his hand, he held a practice sword—a blunt, weighted weapon used for training drills. He wasn’t dressed for training, though. He wore fine trousers and a silk shirt, the picture of indolent arrogance.

A few servants lingered in the shadows of the hall, dusting already-clean surfaces, their eyes flicking towards the stairs. They’d been expecting a show.

Ashford’s gaze landed on their joined hands. A slow, contemptuous smile spread across his face. ”Look at this,” he announced, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. ”The happy couple returns from their little stroll. Did you have fun playing in the dirt, brother?”

Abel’s hand tightened around Orion’s. The relaxed contentment vanished from his face, replaced by a wary tension. He didn’t reply, just stared up at his brother.

”What’s the matter, Abel?” Ashford pushed off the banister, taking a step down. ”Cat got your tongue? Or are you having one of your... episodes?” He tapped the side of his own head with two fingers. The gesture was crude, cruel.

A muffled snicker came from one of the servant boys near a suit of armor.

Abel flinched, a minute recoil that only Orion, pressed against his side, felt. His breathing hitched. Orion saw the confusion and hurt flash in his golden eyes before they shuttered, clouding over with a defensive blankness.

”Leave him alone, Ashford,” Orion said, his voice calm but clear.

Ashford’s attention snapped to him, the mockery deepening. ”Ah, the guardian Omega speaks. Tell me, did you have to wipe his chin after your picnic? Did he remember to use a napkin, or did you have to feed him like a toddler?”

More stifled laughter from the hall. Abel’s grip was becoming painfully tight. Orion could feel the fine tremor starting in his arm.

Orion looked up at Ashford. And then, slowly, he smiled. It wasn’t a cold smile, or a defiant one. It was sweet. Genuinely, disarmingly sweet, as if Ashford had just told a charming joke.

Ashford’s smug monologue faltered. He paused, mid-sneer, thrown off balance by the unexpected reaction.

”Are you pretending to train, younger brother-in-law?” Orion asked softly, his head tilting with innocent curiosity.

Ashford blinked. ”What?”

”You are holding a training sword indoors,” Orion pointed out, his tone gentle, almost helpful. ”It seems an odd place for practice. The marble is so slippery. One might fall.”

Ashford’s jaw tightened. ”Of course not. I was merely on my way to the training grounds.” He lifted the sword slightly, as if to prove his point.

Orion clapped his hands together once, a soft, delighted sound. His smile widened. ”Ahh, I see! How diligent of you. You want to live up to your big brother’s standards.” He beamed up at Ashford as if bestowing a great compliment. ”Keep up the good work. With such dedication, one day you, too, will be able to hold a sword and fight on a real battlefield... just like your brother used to.”

The words hung in the air, dripping with poisonous honey.

Every servant in the hall froze. The snickering died instantly. All eyes were locked on Ashford.

His face underwent a terrifying transformation. The arrogant mask cracked. First came shock, then a hot, humiliated flush that crawled from his neck to his hairline. The insult was masterful—it praised Abel’s past prowess while reducing Ashford’s current efforts to a child’s imitation, all delivered with a veneer of wifely encouragement. It implied Abel’s glory was a permanent, unassailable fact, and Ashford’s entire existence was a pathetic chase after its shadow.

”What the fuck are you saying, Omega?” Ashford hissed, the words scraping out of his throat. He took two steps down, looming over them now.

Orion didn’t retreat. Instead, he stepped up onto the first stair, closing the distance. He reached out, his movements deliberate and calm. His fingers brushed the lapel of Ashford’s fine silk shirt, straightening an invisible wrinkle. It was an intimate, condescending gesture, the kind one would use on a fussy child.

”But don’t go too hard on yourself,” Orion murmured, his sickly-sweet smile never wavering. He leaned in, as if sharing a secret. ”Just hold on a little longer. When Abel gets better, he’ll take over everything again. Then you’ll finally be able to relax.”

It was the final twist of the knife. The public confirmation of Ashford’s deepest fear—that his power was borrowed, temporary, and would be snatched back the moment the true heir recovered.

Something in Ashford snapped.

With a guttural snarl of pure rage, he shoved Orion away—a hard, open-handed blow to the chest.

Orion hadn’t been bracing for it. The force was brutal. His feet slipped on the polished marble stair.

As he stumbled backward, balance lost, time seemed to slow. He was falling, the world tilting. In that suspended moment, as Ashford’s furious, triumphant face loomed above him, Orion’s sickly smile returned. His lips moved, shaping two silent words meant for Ashford’s eyes alone:

*Got you.*

Then the world crashed back in.

Orion’s body hit the edge of a stone step with a sickening, audible *crack* before tumbling down the remaining three stairs to land in a heap on the hard marble floor of the hall.

A woman’s scream pierced the air—one of the maids.

For a second, there was stunned silence.

Orion lay perfectly still.

Then, a dark, wet stain began to bloom rapidly through the grey fabric of his robes, spreading from the back of his head where it had struck the stair’s sharp corner.

Blood. A lot of it, pooling quickly on the pale marble.

”He’s bleeding!” a footman shouted.

”Lord Ashford pushed the new consort!” another voice cried out, this one filled with genuine horror.

”Gods, he’s not moving!”

”Someone call a physician! NOW!”

The hall erupted into chaos. Servants ran in every direction, shouts overlapping. Two rushed towards Orion’s motionless form, their faces pale with terror.

Abel stood frozen on the spot, his hand still outstretched where Orion’s had been ripped from his grasp. He stared at the scene, his mind refusing to process it. The red stain spreading. The stillness. The noise.

Then, a low, broken sound tore from his throat. It wasn’t a word. It was pure, animal anguish.

He stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside Orion. His hands hovered over the blood, shaking violently, afraid to touch. ”Orion?” he whispered, his voice cracking. ”Orion, please...”

Orion’s eyes were closed. His face was deathly pale against the dark marble. He did not respond.

Ashford remained on the stairs, the practice sword dangling forgotten from his hand. All the color had drained from his face, leaving him white as parchment. He stared at the blood, at the unconscious figure, at the gathering crowd of horrified servants whose whispers were no longer mocking but accusing.

He hadn’t meant to... He just shoved him... He couldn’t have...

But the evidence was there, vivid and damning, on the floor. The push had been witnessed by a dozen people. The result was catastrophic.

”I...” Ashford croaked, but no sound came out.

The head butler, an older man with a stern face, appeared at the entrance to the family wing, took in the scene with one sweeping glance, and his expression hardened into grim resolve. He pointed at two sturdy footmen. ”You, fetch Master Physician Arlen. Run. You, inform His Grace the Duke immediately. The rest of you, stand back! Give him air!”

His orders cut through the panic, restoring a brittle order.

But nothing could undo the image now seared into everyone’s memory: the jealous second son, shoving his brother’s gentle Omega husband down the stairs in a fit of rage, leaving him bleeding and unconscious on the floor.

Abel was crying now, silent tears cutting tracks through the dust from the meadow. He carefully, so carefully, gathered Orion’s limp hand into his own, holding it against his chest as if he could transfer his own life into the cold fingers.

”Don’t go,” he pleaded in a shattered whisper, to Orion, to the universe, to anyone who would listen. ”Please don’t go. You promised we’d be okay.”

Up on the stairs, Ashford finally dropped the training sword. It clattered loudly on the marble, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the suddenly quiet hall. He took a stumbling step back, then another, retreating from the consequences of his anger, his face a mask of dawning, utter horror.