A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 38: Riddle Territory

It was power. It was control.

And right now, he controlled this moment entirely.

Anastasia exhaled, tilting her head slightly to look at him. "You're quiet."

Tom's lips twitched as he set his goblet down, his fingers brushing idly against the stem before he turned his full attention to her. "Am I?"

"Yes."

He hummed, leaning slightly toward her, his elbow resting against the edge of his seat, his body angled in a way that left very little space between them. "You prefer it when I speak, then?"

She gave him a small, humourless smile. "I prefer to know what you're thinking."

He regarded her for a long moment, studying her with the same sharp scrutiny he used on books of ancient magic and battle strategies—as if she were a puzzle he had yet to solve, a theory he was eager to test.

Then, finally, he said, "I'm thinking about how easily you accept cruelty."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through her expression, so fleeting that most would have missed it. But Tom saw everything.

"It isn't about acceptance," she replied evenly. "It's inevitability."

Tom tilted his head slightly, as if considering this. "You don't flinch," he observed, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. "Not when you're struck. Not when you're touched." His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before flicking back up. "Not even when you're hurt."

She did not answer.

Because he was right.

She had spent years perfecting the art of stillness, of indifference, of making herself untouchable even when hands were on her. There was no reaction to be had when pain had long since become familiar.

Tom reached out again, this time slower, more deliberate. His fingers traced the cut on her cheek once more, and though it had begun to fade under the soft glow of the lanternlight, it remained—a thin, red mark against otherwise perfect skin.

His fingers moved lower, tracing the sharp edge of her jaw, and she held her breath, still as a statue.

"You don't like being touched," he murmured.

She let out a slow exhale, her voice calm, steady. "I don't like the expectation that comes with it."

Tom's smirk returned, dark amusement flickering in his expression. "And yet, you let me."

"Let you?" she echoed, arching a delicate brow. "You do what you want, Tom. You always have."

His fingers ghosted over her throat before pulling away entirely, leaving behind a phantom sensation, a deliberate absence of warmth.

"Yes," he said quietly, as if the confirmation pleased him.

The carriage jolted slightly as it took a turn, the movement shifting them closer together. Anastasia did not move away. Neither did he.

The word settled between them, heavy with meaning she did not care to unravel.

The Riddle Estate loomed in the distance now, its dark silhouette breaking through the snowfall. The carriage slowed, the hooves of the thestrals crunching against the frozen ground as they approached the entrance.

Neither of them spoke as the carriage came to a halt.

But as Tom opened the door and stepped out, he offered his hand.

Anastasia hesitated for only a fraction of a second before taking it.

His fingers curled around hers, his grip firm, possessive.