A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 9: No Freedom for the Wicked

Chapter 9: No Freedom for the Wicked

The heels of Anastasia's shoes clicked softly against the stone floor as she made her way to Tom's chambers. The echo of the ballroom still lingered in her ears—the lilting music, the low murmur of voices, the sharp clang of glasses meeting in toast. But all of it felt distant now, muffled beneath the oppressive weight of the evening. The tightness in her chest hadn't loosened since she'd walked out of the library, her cheek still stinging from the slap she'd refused to acknowledge.

As she pushed open the heavy door to his room, the silence inside was overwhelming. She stepped in, her body moving automatically, her mind detached. The room was cold despite the roaring fireplace, the ornate furniture and rich tapestries doing little to soften the space. She stood near the hearth, the flames casting flickering shadows on her gown as she stared into the fire.

Her hands trembled slightly, but she curled them into fists, digging her nails into her palms. Never again, she thought, her jaw tightening. She replayed the moments in the library—the violation, the way he had struck her, cursed her, kissed her. She had shown him too much, let him see the fire that burned beneath her mask. And for what? To end up crawling at his feet, the rawness of her defiance used as fuel for his sick delight.

Never again, she vowed silently, her breath steadying. She would not make the mistake of vulnerability again. Tom could hit her, curse her, do whatever he pleased, but he would never see her break. If she was going to survive this, if she was going to protect Regulus and salvage what was left of her dignity, she would have to be smarter. She would give him exactly what he wanted, but no more than that. She would stay in control.

The door opened behind her, and she stiffened before forcing her shoulders to relax. Tom's presence was unmistakable, his footsteps soft but deliberate as he entered. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, and she felt his eyes on her before he spoke.

"You retreated early," he said, his voice smooth, casual, as though nothing had happened tonight. "You'll have them whispering."

She didn't turn, her gaze fixed on the fire. "Let them whisper," she replied, her tone even. "I was tired."

He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost affectionate. She felt him move closer, the air shifting as he came to stand behind her. His fingers brushed against her hair, stroking it lightly before trailing down to her shoulders. She flinched before she could stop herself, and his hand paused.

"Still skittish," he murmured, his tone almost teasing. "You're usually better at hiding that."

Anastasia closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself to breathe evenly. "It's been a long night," she said, her voice steady, the practiced ease of her lie slipping into place. "That's all."

"Hmm," he said, his hand resuming its slow stroke along her shoulder. "You don't have to do that, you know."

"Do what?" she asked, finally turning her head to glance at him, her expression carefully blank.

"Pretend," he said, his lips curving into a faint smile. "You've been acting so demure, so composed—for my benefit, I imagine. But I've seen you now, Anastasia. I've seen what you're capable of. You don't have to keep up the charade."

Her stomach twisted, but she kept her face unreadable. "I don't know what you mean."

Tom chuckled again, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. "You're charming when you lie," he said softly, his hand moving to cup her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "But I'm not blind. Tonight, you showed me something real. That fire, that defiance—it's endearing."