Everything had been a lie. Every word. Every smile. Every touch. And Rufus had been so easily lied to. He’d wanted an ally, a friend in the house; he’d wanted Luke, with his wicked laughing eyes. He’d taken every crumb Luke threw his way, and counted himself blessed beyond all men. Glorious Luke Doomsday, changing his hand for Rufus, taking his side, sharing his bed: oh, he’d been so perfect. A wiser man might have wondered about that. Not Rufus d’Aumesty, the blundering oaf he was, led by the nose by a clever trickster. Luke had lied, and lied, and lied, and Rufus had swallowed it all.
