A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 38: Riddle Territory

But Tom was studying her now, his dark eyes scanning every inch of the wound, his thumb grazing just beneath it. His touch was maddeningly soft, as if tracing something fragile, something that belonged to him.

A pause.

Then, in a voice as smooth as silk, he asked, "Why didn't you heal it?"

His tone was mild, but she knew better. This was not idle curiosity. This was a question with an answer he had already predicted.

She lifted her chin slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. "Didn't feel necessary."

"That," he murmured, tilting his head, "is not an answer."

Anastasia inhaled slowly. She could feel the heat of his palm against her skin, the contrast of warmth against the raw sting of the cut.

"You know why," she said simply.

And he did.

Tom's smirk was slight, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

"Yes," he said, the word almost indulgent. "I do."

He knew she could have healed it within seconds. She was precise in her magic, surgical in her skill. She could have made it disappear before she even left Grimmauld Place.

But she hadn't.

She had let it remain. Not because she was weak. Not because she wanted sympathy. But because pain was easier to hold onto than nothing at all.

Because healing it would have meant it had never happened.

Tom's fingers lingered, still tracing, still learning. Then, with an infuriating slowness, he withdrew his hand, resting it once more against his knee.

The carriage rocked gently over the frozen path, carrying them toward the Riddle estate. Toward the inevitable.

Tom leaned back against the seat, watching her with quiet amusement, as if she had just given him a puzzle he intended to solve.

"You should be more careful, Anastasia," he said smoothly, almost lazily. "You're too beautiful to be marked like this."

Anastasia turned her head to look at him then, tilting her chin slightly. The wound throbbed under his gaze, but she did not let it show.

"Then perhaps you should remind your admirers not to touch what is yours," she said, her voice cool.

Tom's smirk deepened.

"Oh," he murmured, reaching for his goblet of wine, "I intend to."

The snow continued to fall outside, silent and unrelenting.

The carriage carried them forward.

The rhythmic clatter of hooves against ice filled the silence between them, the steady motion of the carriage smoothing the edges of their conversation into something quieter, something more dangerous.

Anastasia had not moved since Tom withdrew his hand, but she could still feel the ghost of his touch against her cheek, the weight of his gaze pressing against her like an unspoken demand. He was watching her now, leisurely, as though trying to decide what to do with her.

Outside, the world was buried beneath an endless stretch of white, the snow falling thick and heavy, muting everything beyond these walls. They were alone, enclosed in this small, dimly lit space where the rest of the world ceased to exist.

Tom took another slow sip of wine, his dark eyes unreadable over the rim of his goblet. The silence between them was not uncomfortable—not for him, at least. He had always liked silence.