The Duke who walked out of Hell

Chapter Nine

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Excuse me?” Damian let out a short, bitter laugh that scraped against the rawness of his split lip. “I just got out of jail. There is nothing grace about me,” he said, his voice edged with sarcasm, though the exhaustion beneath it made the words waver. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his knuckles. “Grace… about me?” He shook his head slowly, fatigue and disbelief heavy in his chest. “If you would excuse me, I have a life to catch up with.”

“Your Grace, we implore you to come with us. We know you have suffered for so long here. Please… allow us to repay the lost time,” the man said, his voice gentle but firm, carrying a weight of sincerity that Damian wasn’t used to hearing.

Damian’s brow furrowed, confusion tightening his chest. “What are you talking about?” His voice was rough, almost breaking, betraying the frustration he had carried through months in confinement.

“You are a duke, the Duke of Ravensmere."

The words hit him like a cold slap, and for a moment, he froze. Then, as if the absurdity of it all demanded release, he laughed. Loud, guttural, and entirely unrestrained, a sound that was half disbelief and half exasperation.

“Ravensmere… really? That’s supposed to be a place?”

It is Your Grace,” one of them said respectfully. “I’m George… The overseer of your estate.”

“You know, I saw some crazy things in jail,” he said between breaths, shaking his head, the laugh fading into a hollow chuckle. “But this… oh Gosh… this is completely out of this world.”

His laughter faltered when the cut on his lip split open again, fresh blood running down his chin. He pressed a trembling hand to it, tasting iron, feeling the sting, and for a moment he wondered if the pain was real or if it was just the only thing that grounded him to the world. The men in front of him exchanged concerned glances.

“We should get that treated,” one of them said softly, carefully, as if approaching a wary animal. “Please, join us.”

Damian’s chest felt tight. Humor and scorn drained from him, leaving hollow emptiness. He thought about everything waiting—or rather, not waiting—for him outside those prison walls.

Vanessa was getting married, the child wasn’t his. Everything he had hoped to return to had moved on without him. The thought hit him like a knife twisting in his gut: nothing. Nothing at all.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Doubt clawed at him, mingled with curiosity and the tiniest flicker of hope he wasn’t sure he deserved. Finally, he exhaled slowly, almost reluctantly.

“You’re serious about this?” he asked, his voice rough, raw, and suspicious.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man replied with calm certainty.

Damian studied their faces, scanning for any sign of mockery, deception, or pity. But he found none—only patience, and something that resembled loyalty. His throat tightened, and he realized, with an unfamiliar pang, that he was tired of fighting everyone alone.

At last, he gave a small, resigned nod. “Alright then. Let’s see what this is about.”

They motioned for him to step forward, and Damian’s eyes widened at the sight of the limousine waiting beside them. He hadn’t imagined they possessed such sophistication—or wealth.

“This… is your car?” he asked, barely able to hide his surprise.

“It’s yours, Your Grace,” one of them replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “And many more await.”

“Wow.” Damian’s lips parted in awe as he hopped into the car. The doors closed behind him, and with a gentle hum, the limousine glided smoothly into the night.

He rubbed at his lip again, wincing as the sting flared anew. im

“So…” he muttered, glancing at the two men walking beside him. His voice carried sarcasm, but it was brittle, masking the unease that churned beneath. “Where exactly are we going? Some kind of… fancy rescue mission? A palace?”

“You’ll see soon enough, Your Grace,” George replied, smiling faintly, but not mockingly. “We just want you to come home.”

“Home.” The word landed heavily on Damian’s tongue, foreign and heavy. He had imagined freedom countless times, had imagined stepping into a life reclaimed, but never like this—not guided by strangers, not with such ceremony, not with promises he didn’t know he could trust. A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. “I spent a year in a cell, and now suddenly I have a home? I must’ve slept through something.”

They didn’t answer, only continued walking, their pace steady, unwavering. The streets were familiar yet alien under the evening shadows, and Damian felt the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly. But he couldn’t shake the gnawing emptiness inside him, the quiet whisper of fear that he didn’t belong anywhere anymore.

Eventually, they reached a tall wrought-iron gate, ornate and gleaming faintly in the last of the sun’s light. Damian froze. His eyes traced the intricate swirls of metal, lingering on the crest at its center. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to the house behind it—a sprawling mansion that seemed impossibly large, its windows reflecting the fading sky.

“This… this is yours?” he asked, disbelief cracking through the veneer of sarcasm. His throat felt tight, and his hands twitched as if afraid to touch something so unfamiliar, so real.

“Its yours,Your Grace,” the man said softly, almost reverently. “Everything here has been waiting for you.”

Damian let out a long, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Waiting for me… like a ghost? Or maybe like a joke?” His hand hovered over the gate, uncertain, almost afraid to make contact. The thought of stepping into a life he had never imagined, a life that had carried on without him, was dizzying.

“Your Grace, come on in,” George said, holding the door open with a steady hand. “Step inside, and you will learn everything you need to know.”

Damian hesitated for a moment, letting his eyes take in the grandeur of the estate one last time, before stepping out and following George toward the entrance.