A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 38: Riddle Territory

She could say power.

She could say freedom.

She could say nothing at all.

Instead, she simply held his gaze and said, "It doesn't matter."

Tom's fingers tightened ever so slightly beneath her chin.

"It matters to me."

And there it was again—that thing lurking behind his words, something deeper, something darker than possession.

Obsession.

Anastasia exhaled slowly, but her voice remained steady. "You assume I want anything at all."

Tom's eyes flickered with something unreadable before he released her, stepping back with the same slow deliberation he did everything.

"Everyone wants something," he said simply.

The corner of her mouth lifted in the faintest hint of a smirk. "I guess I'm not everyone, am I?"

He studied her for a moment longer, his gaze trailing over her features as if he could extract the truth from her with sheer will alone.

Then, with a soft, knowing chuckle, he turned away.

"You can deceive everyone else," he mused, making his way toward the staircase. "But not me."

The firelight flickered against the dark wood paneling, casting long, restless shadows along the marble floor. The estate was quiet—too quiet. A vast and hollow silence pressed in around them, broken only by the occasional crackle of the hearth and the steady rhythm of their breathing.

Anastasia had spent countless nights in these halls, surrounded by power, by influence, by expectations that chained her just as tightly as the Black family's ever-watchful gaze. But tonight, something in her felt different. The echoes of the evening still clung to her—Sirius's laughter in the Soho pub, the clash of James's sharp words against Robbie's easy charm. The contrast between the world outside this estate and the one she was now trapped in had never felt more suffocating.

She hesitated.

Somehow, being out with Sirius had made her bold.

"You know what I do not want, Tom?" she said at last, her voice quiet but unwavering. She turned to him then, lifting her chin slightly, the weight of her words settling between them like an unspoken challenge.

Tom had been about to leave, but at her words, he stopped. Slowly, deliberately, he turned back toward her, his sharp features cast in flickering gold. He did not speak, but his gaze darkened, his attention sharpening like the edge of a blade.

"I do not want to trade one prison for another," she said.

A beat of silence.

Something flickered in Tom's expression—something unreadable, but it passed as quickly as it came, replaced by something harder. His jaw clenched, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly, a ripple of restrained tension. When he spoke, his voice was different now, no longer smooth and indulgent, but edged with something colder.

"Is that what you think this is?" he asked, his tone quiet but laced with steel. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "A prison?"

His dark eyes searched hers, sharp and probing, looking for cracks, for weakness.

"You think too little of this arrangement, dear," he murmured, and the pet name, usually spoken with amusement, now held a dangerous sort of weight.

Anastasia did not look away. "Then enlighten me," she said, her tone even.

Tom's smirk was cold and measured.