A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 71: In Another World

"Don't you have somewhere better to be?" she asked coolly.

He shrugged. "Probably. I'll leave once you smile."

"That's going to be a while."

He smirked before dropping down on the floor next to her.

"Alright. I'll sit."

She was placing small bottles into a pouch now—skin care, potions, a phial of something clear that shimmered faintly when it caught the candlelight. Dreamless sleep. She reached for the ribbon she used to tie her potion kit. Her fingers fumbled. She missed the knot on the first try.

James noticed.

He didn't say anything at first. Just watched her hands. The second time she missed, he sat forward.

"Anastasia," he said, quieter now.

She froze, ribbon in hand.

He reached for her wrist, gently, deliberately. His thumb brushed along the inside of it, and she realised—too late—that her hands were shaking.

She yanked it back. "It's nothing."

He didn't let go right away. Just sat there, eyes steady on her face.

"You should get some sleep," she said, her voice clipped. "We're all exhausted."

"Not until you stop pretending you're alright."

She exhaled sharply through her nose and turned, ready to deflect again—but he was already standing beside her, arms crossed, watching her like he was counting the breaths she wasn't taking properly.

"Anastasia." He repeated.

She gritted her teeth. "You think I don't know what's waiting for me tomorrow? You think I haven't already imagined every version of what might happen? I'm prepared."

"Are you?" he asked quietly.

She moved to pick up the ribbon again, but her fingers faltered.

"You don't have to pretend with me," he said softly. "Not tonight."

Something about the way he said it—quiet, unpressured—hit harder than it should have. Her shoulders curled inward.

"I'm just tired."

"Your hands are shaking."

She stopped.

For a moment, the room was completely still. Just the ticking of the little brass clock on her desk and the soft flutter of curtains in the draft. James leaned forward slowly, and then, gently, without pressure, reached out and curled his fingers around hers, steadying them.

"Hey," he said. "You're okay. You're alright."

Her breathing stuttered.

"But I'm not," she whispered, the words cracking open like something fractured at the root. "I'm not alright."

She didn't look up, but her breath was too fast now. Shallow. Her shoulders too tight. Her posture too rigid, like if she moved the wrong way she'd splinter.

She gripped the edge of the trunk like it anchored her. "Too many things could happen. Too many things could go wrong. If I lose control again—if I slip—if he realises what I'm capable of—he could use me. He could use me to hurt people. I—"

Her breath came too fast. Her sentences broke apart, stumbled over themselves.

"I don't know what's mine anymore when I'm around him. I don't know if I can stay—"