A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 26: Yes, Tom

Tom's touch still lingered on Anastasia's cheek, his thumb brushing away the faint tremor in her jaw. She swallowed, trying to steady herself, her heart hammering a discordant rhythm against her ribs. Outside, the wind whispered through the estate's manicured hedges, but inside, the tension swallowed the air.

Tom exhaled, letting his hand slide from her cheek to cup the back of her neck. His grip was firm, not painful, but enough to make her feel tethered to him. Leaning closer, he allowed his lips to graze her temple before he spoke.

"You must understand," he said quietly, each word weighed with something like caution, "everything that's at stake right now. The mood at the Ministry...it's restless. There's talk, accusations, and every Pureblood family with ties to dark magic is under scrutiny. I've been on edge, Anastasia. I can't afford to show weakness."

Anastasia wanted to scoff—on edge? He deserved all the scrutiny he was under. But she said nothing, swallowing her retort in fear it would ignite his temper. Though she did sense a slight shift in his demeanour, a thread of genuine frustration woven through the polished veneer of Tom Riddle's composure.

Still, her throat tightened as she recalled the cold eyes of Ministry officials who had come to the Black household countless times—always suspicious, always prying. It was no surprise that the Ministry was now fixated on Tom, whose rise within its ranks had been as swift as it was mysterious. She wondered how many secrets he must be juggling—how many deals and alliances formed and broken under gilded chandeliers. Her nerves prickled at the thought.

He tapped a finger against his wine goblet, eyes never leaving her face. "It's not just about me. It's not just about you. It's bigger than both of us. I need you to see that. It was never my intention to...watch you slip away." His words came with careful deliberation, as though each confession was a vulnerability. "I can't bear it."

Anastasia let out a shaky breath, the air seeming thin and cold in her lungs. A sliver of emotion cracked through her numbness. It felt disconcerting—hope or fear, she wasn't sure. "I'm trying to do what you say," she managed quietly. "I've only been trying to—"

"To keep peace?" He finished her sentence. "Yes. But this, Anastasia—this..." His fingers flicked in her direction, as though gesturing to the hollow look in her eyes or the weight she'd lost. "This meekness doesn't suit you at all."

She glanced down, her hair falling across her cheek in a dark veil. "It's not as if you left me much choice."

Tom's jaw tightened, but he didn't explode like before. His voice was measured when he spoke again. "I never wanted you to become a hollow replica of yourself. You—" He paused, pressing his lips together. "Your wit used to sharpen me. Your way with words... No one else in our circle dares speak like you did—like you could." He took a deep breath, then repeated almost softly, "Meekness doesn't suit you."

A single note of bitterness found its way past Anastasia's lips. "Should I just endure your punishments then?"

Tom dipped his head, acknowledging her point with surprising candor. "I am...not always kind, nor do I handle defiance well. But—" His gaze pinned her in place. "You are mine, Anastasia, and I am yours. I meant what I said. This marriage is our alliance, and I can't have my partner in such a state. I won't watch you fade away."

She could hear the possessiveness in his tone, that lilt of entitlement, and yet there was a flicker of something else...perhaps a desire for genuine connection—twisted though it was. She took in a breath, her ribs aching from the tension.

"Then what do we do?" she asked, voice wavering. "I can't bear more violence, Tom."

His lips flattened into a thin line, and he closed his eyes for a moment. "I said I would try." His gaze moved to hers, steady, intense. "If you can speak freely...within reason...then I won't raise my wand again. Not unless you force me." He reached out, covering her hand with his. A fleeting warmth passed between them, so alien to her that it caused a tightness in her chest.

Anastasia wanted to withdraw her hand, but she was too tired to fight. Instead, she let her palm remain under his, her mind spinning through all the possible traps in his words. Could she trust him even a fraction?

She swallowed thickly, making sure her voice was level when she finally spoke. "If you truly mean it...then give me room to breathe. To be something other than a puppet on display."

Tom's lips curved into an understated smile. "I can do that," he said softly. "I...will try." He emphasised the word again, and for an instant, something akin to sincerity flashed across his face. "Because you are mine, and"—here, he paused, perhaps savouring the weight of the admission—"I am yours."

The statement felt like a slow, careful echo in Anastasia's ears. She wasn't sure whether it was a promise or a threat—perhaps both. She let her eyes flicker up to meet his, and for the first time in months, she saw something akin to sincerity flicker across his features. It was faint, buried beneath that cool veneer, but it was there.

She might have wondered if she was hallucinating it all, the candlesticks too bright, her fatigue making her see illusions of kindness. But he squeezed her hand gently, his tone softening further. "I miss your spirit, Anastasia."

She studied him warily, torn between wanting to believe in this momentary mercy and the near certainty it was as fragile as a blown-glass ornament. She gave a tentative nod, the corners of her mouth twitching as though unsure whether to smile or to brace for another blow.

"All right," she said at last, her voice subdued. It was neither a promise nor an acceptance—just acknowledgement of his attempt.

Tom let out a breath, releasing her hand. He glanced at the food growing cold, then back at her. "Try to eat," he told her quietly, no longer a harsh command but a gentler prompting. "You'll need your strength if you're going to have any chance of challenging me again."

A flicker of the old Anastasia—sharp-tongued, proud—rose up in her chest. Instead of replying with the usual Yes, Tom or Of course, Tom, she lifted her chin just slightly, giving him the barest hint of a sardonic smile. "We'll see," she said.

For a moment, he looked genuinely relieved, as though that single remark reassured him that perhaps the girl he once sparred with still lingered under the surface. And in the glimmer of candlelight, Anastasia wondered if maybe—just maybe—she could survive this. At least for another day.