Trouble at the Castle [Sequel to Fun in a Castle.]

Arlo was out with what he fondly called his Femboy Fatales, a small group of friends who met once a month to hit the bars and clubs of York. Tonight, though, he’d gotten separated from them, winding up alone in a backstreet while trying to find the bar they’d moved on to. That was when it happened.

A group of men set upon him, seemingly offended by his very existence. The encounter was fast and brutal. They left him bloodied on the pavement and disappeared into the night.

Dazed and shaking, Arlo managed to call a taxi. When the driver asked for the destination, all he could choke out was, “Ashcombe Vale Castle, Malton.” He shoved £100 into the man’s hand, making it clear it was the only place he wanted to go. Then he collapsed back into the seat, staring blankly out of the window as the world blurred past.

The sound of a taxi engine struggling up the long gravel drive shattered the quiet. It wasn’t the smooth purr of Max’s Rolls-Royce. When the cab finally ground to a halt before the honey-coloured stone steps, the door swung open heavily.

Arlo didn’t skip out.

He tumbled.

His body hit the gravel with a sickening thud, his blonde bob matted with something dark and wet, his lacy stockings torn to shreds.

“Arlo!”

Kiara’s voice cut through the night, sharp and piercing. She bolted from the grand entrance, her purple skirt fluttering behind her. Arlo let out a ragged, wet cough, trying and failing to push himself upright. One of his jade-green eyes was swollen shut, and a deep gash across his cheekbone wept blood onto his oversized black jumper.

“I… I told him… take me home…” he wheezed.

The Grand Entrance Hall, usually full of warmth, light, and laughter, felt cavernous and cold as the heavy oak doors closed behind them. A trail of crimson droplets stained the marble as Drew and Kiara hauled Arlo between them. You moved with quiet, frantic efficiency in the background, phone pressed to your ear. Your voice stayed low and steady as you bypassed emergency lines, calling the private doctors on retainer, your eyes never leaving the broken figure at the centre of the room.

“Put him down, right here! Get the cushions from the morning room!” Molly’s voice rang out, sharper and more authoritative than anyone had ever heard it.

In the six months since she’d arrived, Molly and Arlo had become inseparable, the so-called chaos twins of the castle. Seeing him like this snapped something inside her. The guarded girl vanished, replaced by a focused, almost clinical intensity.

“Drew, I need a basin of warm water and the first aid kit. Kiara, stop shaking, it's not helping”

She dropped to her knees without hesitation, carefully peeling back the ruined, blood-soaked jumper.

“Hey. Look at me, Arlo. Look at me,” she whispered, her grey eyes cutting through his shock. She dabbed gently at his cheek, her touch tender in a way only another survivor could manage.

Arlo whimpered, his one good eye fluttering. He reached out with a bruised, trembling hand and hooked a finger into the hem of her blouse, “Molly-mouse…” he breathed. “I… I ruined my favourite shorts.”

A watery, broken laugh escaped her, though her hands never stopped moving. “I’ll buy you ten more pairs, you idiot. Just stay with me.”

Two weeks had passed since that night.

Physically, Arlo was healing. The stitches were out, the bruises fading to pale yellow shadows. To the outside world, he was back to his bratty, magnetic self, throwing playful insults, wearing his eyeliner with pride.

But the nights were different.

In the dead quiet of the East Wing, the faint creak of a door broke the silence. Kiara was already asleep, her head resting on your shoulder, dark hair fanned across the pillows. A small, trembling figure slipped into the room.

Arlo didn’t speak as he climbed onto the bed, his movements stripped of their usual grace. He went straight for you, burying his face into your chest. The façade he’d held together for two weeks finally cracked. He didn’t just cry, he sobbed, his slender body shaking as he clung to you with a desperate, white knuckled grip.

The original, unbreakable bond you shared was the only thing that felt safe enough to hold his trauma.

The shift of the mattress and the sound of his distress acted like a beacon. The door creaked open again moments later. Molly slipped inside, drawn by instinct alone, with a sleepy but worried Drew close behind her. Without a word, they joined the huddle. Molly curled in on Arlo’s other side, resting her head against his back, while Drew settled at the foot of the bed, solid, protective, present.

Kiara stirred, waking to find the bed overflowing with the people they had once rescued, and who were now, in turn, holding Arlo together. She didn’t complain about the lack of space. Instead, she leaned in close, her breath warm against your ear as she took in the tangled limbs and shared comfort.

“This is a proper family now, isn’t it?” she whispered, her voice soft and tearful. She lent over you and gently stroked Arlo's cheek then rested her head against your's "We've got you Arlo." Kiara whispered. "Haven't we?" She said pressing herself tighter into your back and smiling.