A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 38: Riddle Territory

Chapter 38: Riddle Territory

The Black family manor loomed in the distance, its cold stone façade vanishing into the night as the carriage rolled away from Grimmauld Place. Snow dusted the cobblestone streets, blanketing the world in an unnatural quiet, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves against ice. The interior of the carriage was dimly lit, the lanterns casting a soft golden glow against the plush velvet seats.

Anastasia sat still, hands folded in her lap, back perfectly straight. She had spent years perfecting the art of silence, of disappearing into stillness when necessary.

Tom sat beside her, composed as ever, his posture one of effortless control. He had barely spoken since they had left the manor, but his presence filled the space, pressing against her like an unseen force. He was watching her. He had been watching her all evening.

The ride was smooth, but the tension between them was not. It stretched taut, humming beneath the quiet, an unspoken understanding neither of them acknowledged.

Then, without warning, Tom moved.

His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing against her cheek with an impossible softness. Anastasia inhaled sharply—not in fear, not in surprise, but something else. Something she did not care to name.

His touch was delicate, reverent even, his fingers skimming the curve of her jaw before trailing upward, brushing over the place where Walburga's ring had struck her. Even through the layers of charm and powder, he had known.

Of course, he had known.

Anastasia did not move, did not breathe as he traced the invisible wound with the pad of his thumb, his touch feather-light. From a distance, it would have looked tender. Intimate. If someone were watching, they might have mistaken him for a devoted lover, might have thought this was a moment of quiet affection.

But Anastasia knew better.

Tom never touched anything without purpose.

He exhaled softly, so close that she could feel his breath against her skin.

Then, he murmured something under his breath— finite.

The glamour charm unraveled instantly, dissipating like mist, and the truth beneath was laid bare.

The thin, cruel line Walburga's ring had left stretched across her cheekbone, red and raw. The mark of humiliation. Of control.

Tom's gaze darkened as he took it in.

"She has no regard for what is mine," he murmured, almost to himself.

A shiver ran through her—not from fear, but something colder. Something deeper.

His fingers lingered, tracing the wound with an almost obsessive attention, as if committing it to memory. As if it was an offence he meant to correct.

"What did you do to deserve it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Anastasia's lips parted, but she hesitated before answering. Lying would be pointless. Tom knew lies the way a musician knew his instrument—he would hear the false note instantly.

So, she told the truth.

"Walburga does not need an excuse to inflict punishment."

His gaze flicked to hers, searching, weighing. Then, his thumb brushed lower, tracing the skin just beneath her cut, pressing ever so slightly as if testing her reaction.

Anastasia did not flinch.

She never flinched.

Tom's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "No," he murmured. "I suppose she doesn't."