The carriage was still in the Hargreaves' estate's drive when Cain pulled Riff into his bedchamber and locked the door behind him. A second later, his lips crashed onto his servant's, his breaths hot and bitter, his arms desperately clinging with the fear of being dragged away into darkness.
Nothing in that kiss had anything to do with love. Riff broke away from his master, confused, but tightly keeping the younger man in his arms as he began to lower to the floor. Cain clasped his chest, trying to steady his breathing, but he felt as if every inhale caused blood to splurt out of a gaping wound. Not a physical wound, though it still existed. His heart was so heavy that he stuck to the floor, locking Riff's arms in his, struggling to find air in the vast room around him.
It seemed as if Cain's lamentations were insatiable. He covered his face, scratched at his clothes and when they were removed so that Cain could go to bed, he clawed his skin raw. All of his work, dissipated. All of his love, pointless. If he couldn't save Emile, if he couldn't even kill his father correctly, then how could he expect to accomplish anything great?
When Cain's self-loathing finally ran out of fuel, Riff sat beside him, having discarded his jacket and tie. He took a cloth soaked in cool water and placed it on his master's forehead and throat and the lacerations from his own fingernails.
He bent down slowly and whispered, "Tomorrow will be a better day." Cain made no recognition or response, but as Riff rose to dress and depart, Cain caught his hand and gave it a feeble squeeze before he released it.