A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 73: A Week in the Country

She folded her hands loosely at her waist.

"Will you be staying?"

A beat.

"Possibly," he said. "If the evening drags. Du Lorme always insists on port after dinner, and it's easier to oblige than to argue."

There was a slight flicker of distaste when he said the name—not quite a sneer, but close. It softened as quickly as it appeared, his expression reassembling itself with the efficiency of someone who'd learned long ago how not to reveal too much. But Anastasia had known him long enough to read the shift.

She nodded once, slowly.

"Of course."

Tom moved to the low chest near the hearth and adjusted the lapel of his coat with two fingers. The flick of his wand brought his briefcase to heel—neatly packed, no doubt by one of the estate's silent staff. The fire behind them cracked softly. His shadow lengthened over the floorboards.

"I've arranged for your driver," he added. "Malfoy Manor isn't far, but it's too wet for Apparition. Take Lysander. He won't speak unless spoken to."

Anastasia inclined her head. "Thank you."

Another pause stretched between them. Not awkward. Not strained. Just... aware. As though the room itself was holding its breath. Tom paced slowly toward her—not looming, but deliberate in that quiet, unhurried way that made everything he did feel inevitable. He stopped a pace too close. Close enough that the faint cedar of his cologne reached her—sharp, familiar. The heat of him. The stillness of him. Her breath caught without moving.

"Lucius will be there, won't he?" he asked, tone mild. Almost idle.

She didn't flinch, but her posture shifted just slightly.

"He and Narcissa are hosting, yes."

A nod. Almost to himself. His eyes skimmed her face—not harsh, but observant. Uncomfortably so. He was quieter these days when Lucius came up in conversation. Less suspicious. Less overt. But it lingered. The memory of that jealousy. The flickers of sharp, unbecoming silence that used to follow any event Lucius attended without a chaperone. Still, Tom only exhaled—slow and unbothered. Or pretending to be.

"He's loyal," he said, not quite to her. "Even when he postures."

Anastasia said nothing. Tom's gaze moved past her, briefly to the window, where rain still laced the panes like veins. Then back to her.

"Still," he added, voice lighter, "do me the favour of not letting him bore you."

That startled something in her—almost a laugh. But it didn't quite rise. She only allowed the edge of a smile, sharp and fleeting.

"I'll try," she said.

He tilted his head at that. And for a second, he almost looked amused. Then he stepped forward again, one hand rising—not to command, not to correct, but to reach. His fingers brushed the curve of her jaw, slow and feather-light, then trailed just beneath her ear. She didn't lean in. But she didn't move away either. Tom's touch lingered. His thumb rested briefly against the hollow beneath her cheekbone, as though assessing something invisible there.

"If the evening runs long," he murmured, "I'll send word. You won't be left wondering."

He meant it. He always did. His control didn't falter when he left. He extended it, threadlike, into every space she occupied.

"Understood," she said quietly.

Tom's hand dropped back to his side, and he stepped away without another word. The loss of contact felt like the lifting of a spell—sudden, cold, almost absurd in its mundanity. He crossed the room once more, picked up his gloves from the chair near the hearth, and slipped them on with unhurried precision. Each movement was neat. Crisp. As if he were dressing not for travel, but for performance.

Anastasia didn't move.

The weight of his presence still pressed down on the air like an incantation not yet broken. Even with his back to her, she felt the thread of his attention still tethered to the space between them. Her hands remained laced lightly at her waist, the silk of her dressing gown cool against her palms. She didn't trust her limbs to feel normal again yet. Not while he lingered.

Tom fastened the final button at his wrist, then straightened. He glanced toward the fireplace as if considering something unspoken. The flames cast flickering shadows up the carved stonework. Then, without turning, he said—

"When I'm not here," his voice was low, even, "you are."

Anastasia's throat tightened.

Tom turned at last. Not with the serpentine grace he often used when circling his prey, but simply. Plainly. As if this were fact, and not something she needed to be convinced of.

"The staff answer to you," he continued, stepping forward once more, "the wards are tuned to your signature. The east and south wings remain closed, but all else is accessible. If anyone enters this estate uninvited, you'll know before they reach the gate."

She nodded once, slow and careful. "Of course."

But Tom didn't stop there.

"The inner circle," he went on, his tone lightening faintly—as if he were commenting on the weather, or an opera he hadn't particularly enjoyed, "respects you because they know I do. And fear you because they think I might not always."

Her stomach hollowed a little at that. The threat wrapped in praise. The reminder that her status wasn't hers—it was borrowed, conditional, worn like borrowed robes she'd never paid for.

"You're not a guest here," he said, taking another step toward her. "You are what remains in my absence. Which means you behave like it."

Anastasia didn't blink.

"You're not to defer. Not to the staff. Not to Lucius. Not to anyone."

There was no sharpness in his voice. No bite. Just quiet conviction. As if he were reciting a rule of nature rather than issuing a command.

"Authority is a performance," Tom added, more softly now. "But you already know that."

He stopped in front of her again, only a foot of silence between them.

His gaze flicked over her—neck to shoulder, to where the comb held her hair, then back to her eyes. And when he spoke next, there was a hush in his voice. A strange gentleness. Not affection. Not approval. Something colder. Something that mistook recognition for love.

"Make sure they know it," he said, softer now. "This house does not pause when I'm gone. You carry it."

Her breath caught. He said it like a gift. Like a coronation.

"Whatever remains of me in this house," he murmured, "is yours to wield."

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in and kissed her.

Not possessive. Not brutal. Not like before. His mouth was cool, composed—measured pressure against hers. A mark, not a question. The kind of kiss that closed a deal. That sealed a command with ritual precision. It didn't ask her anything. It told her something. That she was his echo, his instrument, his legacy. And that in his absence, she would be expected to act accordingly.

Anastasia didn't return it. Not truly. But she didn't pull away either. Her lips parted just enough to make it look mutual. Just enough to keep the illusion intact. Her heart beat with quiet violence behind her ribs. And she let the moment pass as he wanted it to.

When he pulled back, his hand hovered near her jaw again—almost brushing her skin. But he stopped short. A near-touch. A gesture uncompleted. As though he knew finishing it would undo the spell.

"I'll send word," he said simply.

Then he turned.

The ward shimmered around him as he walked back toward the hearth. His wand twitched once. The portkey—an old brass watch this time—rose from the mantel and snapped to his hand.

He didn't look back.

The rain struck harder against the windows as he vanished. The sound of apparition—a muted crack—didn't echo. It just dissolved into the silence.