A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 38: Riddle Territory

"This union grants you freedom," he said, his voice low, coaxing, as if she were simply being foolish and needed to be reminded of the truth. "Freedom from your pathetic excuse of guardians. Freedom to do whatever you wish. No more groveling at the feet of Walburga Black. No more being a pawn in their games. With me, Anastasia—" his fingers brushed against her wrist, light as a whisper, a fleeting reminder of possession—"you can shape your own future."

Her lips parted slightly, but before she could speak, he continued, his voice silk-wrapped steel.

"Power," he said simply. "That is what I am offering you."

She studied him, searching his face. The conviction in his words was absolute—he believed this. He believed he was offering her something more than chains, that the noose around her throat was a gift.

"As long as it pleases you," she said, her voice softer now, but sharp enough to cut.

Tom's smirk returned, slow and knowing, and the tension between them changed—darkened, twisted into something more dangerous, something more intimate.

"As long as it pleases me," he echoed, his tone both a promise and a warning.

The space between them felt smaller now, the air heavier. His fingers brushed against hers again, testing, coaxing.

Anastasia inhaled slowly, keeping her composure, keeping herself from showing anything—not the unease curling in her stomach, nor the way his words sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

"You know," he said finally, voice slow, deliberate, "I've never known you to be so sentimental, Anastasia."

She did not flinch. Did not stiffen. She simply met his gaze, her expression carefully composed. "I'm not sure that I know what you mean."

Tom smirked, sharp and knowing. "Don't insult me." He stepped forward, the space between them shrinking, his presence filling the air like a spell cast without words. "You've been... distant this evening. Lost in your own thoughts. I can see it."

Anastasia let out a slow breath, measured, unfazed. "Perhaps you're imagining things."

"Perhaps," he allowed, though his smirk told her he didn't believe it. His dark eyes swept over her face, searching, as if piecing together a puzzle just out of reach. He exhaled softly, shaking his head, amused. "You spent your entire childhood perfecting your indifference, and yet..." He trailed off, tilting his head slightly. "Something lingers tonight."

The words settled between them, heavy with meaning she refused to acknowledge.

"Now you seem to be the sentimental one, Tom," she said lightly. "It doesn't suit you."

He chuckled, the sound low and quiet.

Then, without warning, he took another step forward, closing the distance between them entirely.

Anastasia inhaled sharply but did not step back.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice quiet, coaxing, dangerous. "Is it the idea of me that unsettles you?" His gaze flickered over her face, his breath warm against her skin. "Or is it the idea that you are not so different?"

The fire crackled behind them, but the warmth did not reach her.

"You do not unsettle me, Tom," she said, her voice even.

His smirk widened, something dark flickering behind his gaze. "No?"

"No."

Tom studied her for a moment longer, then—

"Then kiss me."

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy. The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the space with a dim, flickering glow, but the warmth did not reach her. Not with him standing so close.

Tom tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes gleaming with quiet amusement, sharp with something deeper, something dangerous. He had not moved since issuing his challenge. He didn't need to.

She was the one who had to decide.

His smirk widened, slow and knowing. "Can't do it, can you?" His voice was soft, coaxing, but laced with quiet cruelty. "You need me to force you so you can pretend you don't have a choice."

Anastasia inhaled slowly.

Her pulse was steady, her breath measured, but something inside her twisted—an acknowledgment she did not want to name.

She had been arguing. Uselessly. As if any of this mattered. As if it would change anything.

Sentimental.

The realisation struck her with an almost bitter amusement. Sirius had made her sentimental. James Potter, of all people, had made her sentimental. A single evening outside of these suffocating halls, a brief taste of something untamed and real, had made her forget. Had made her feel something as foolish as defiance.

But the truth was simple.

It did not matter.

None of it did.

So she stepped forward, closing the space between them, and kissed him.

It was not soft. Not tender. It was measured, controlled—just like everything she did.

Tom did not react at first, as if waiting to see whether she would truly follow through. And then, slowly, his fingers brushed over her jaw, his touch deceptively gentle. His other hand found her waist, pressing against the fabric of her robes, pulling her just enough to remind her that he was the one allowing this. That he had won.

When she pulled away, his smirk was wider now, more satisfied than before.

"Good girl," he murmured.

Anastasia did not react.

She had done what she needed to do.

The conversation was over.

Tom exhaled softly, the amusement in his expression settling into something darker, something possessive. His fingers lingered on her waist for a moment longer before he stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if the matter had been neatly resolved.

"Let's go to bed, my dear," he said, his voice smooth, almost affectionate.

He turned without waiting for her, knowing she would follow.

And she did.