A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 59: Dripping Half-Promises

He adjusted the cloak, blinked down into the dark, and kept walking.

***

Anastasia had showered with scalding water that left her skin raw and pink, like she could rinse off the blood, the taste, the guilt. It hadn't worked. Not really.

Her hair was still wet, sticking to her shoulders and the back of her neck, strands curling along her jaw. The dark silk of her nightgown clung to her thighs with every step, damp and stubborn. The gown was thin, sticking to her hips, her thighs, too clingy for comfort, but she couldn't sit still long enough to change. Couldn't sit still at all. She paced the room barefoot, back and forth, like a ghost haunting her own dormitory.

She had told herself not to wait.

Good, she thought. He shouldn't come back. Not after everything. Not after what I did.

And still, every time the castle creaked or a breeze moaned through the windowpanes, she twisted toward the door like it might open.

She hated herself for it.

It had been over thirty minutes.

Anastasia had counted—once, then twice, then lost track somewhere around the twentieth pass across her dormitory floor. Back and forth, like she could carve clarity into the stone just by walking hard enough.

He wasn't coming back.

She paused by the bed, the blanket still rumpled from where he'd sat. The pendant was still in her palm. She hadn't set it down. Anastasia squeezed it tight enough that the metal bit into her skin.

The knock was soft. Just a quiet tap, tap, barely audible through the thick dormitory door. Anastasia froze mid-step, heart stuttering like it had been caught doing something wrong. Her gaze flicked to the door. She didn't move right away. Just stood there, staring like she could force it to disappear.

She stepped forward. The handle felt cold beneath her fingers. When she opened it, James was there. And, of course, of course—he looked like he hadn't just spilled his heart out across her floor.

"Hey," he said, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe like he'd just stopped by to borrow sugar.

His hair was windblown, the collar of his shirt still open from earlier. The moonlight caught the edge of his cheekbone, casting shadows beneath his eyes, but he smiled like none of it mattered. He looked too casual. Deliberately casual.

Anastasia didn't say anything at first. She just stared at him, water still dripping from the ends of her hair. Her fingers curled tighter around the pendant at her side.

James' eyes dragged across her in a lazy sweep, and his smile twitched wider.

"You're clean."

Anastasia blinked. "You're not."

He grinned like that was exactly the response he'd hoped for. "Don't hold it against me."

Anastasia stared at him, speechless. A drop of water slid down the column of her throat.

His gaze dipped, just briefly, over her form. Her legs. The way the nightgown stuck to her skin. Her wet hair dripping onto her collarbones.

If he noticed, he didn't say anything. Instead, without waiting for permission, he kicked off his shoes, stepped past her like he belonged there, and launched himself onto her bed with all the elegance of someone trying very hard not to acknowledge any of the things they'd both said an hour ago.

"Wow," he said, flopping back against the pillows. "Your mattress is softer than mine. Outrageous. I'm writing a letter."

"To whom?" she asked, still standing by the door, blinking at him like she wasn't sure if he was real.