Page 89

I was much stronger than this little Elguto. He could flail and twitch all he wanted; he would never match me. Being born into this life had its benefits. His attempt drew a dark chuckle from deep within my chest, a sound that rattled straight through his spine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mark whispered back. He tried to match my tone with his own attempt at menace, but to my ear, it was feeble.

I was just a cat toying with its meal. It felt indecent… but inevitable. How could you expect the cat not to entertain itself before devouring its dinner? It was never enough to simply catch the prey; you had to watch it squirm. “Oh, you don’t?” I asked, tightening my grip across his chest.

His voice strained as his lungs fought uselessly for room beneath the pressure. “I just met them tonight,” he rasped. The lie slid out of him effortlessly, and yet it was laughably unprepared. He reeked of that man’s signature. I leaned in and drew a slow, deliberate breath through my nose. The scent burned my nostrils, foul and unmistakable, but it confirmed all the truth I needed. He was still ignorant enough not to understand how deeply scent binds us.

“Liar.”

“Mark,” Martha’s voice cut in gently, almost apologetically. She had stepped in front of us now, her gaze fixed on him. Without hesitation, she said, “I told them… that you’ve been here before.”

His body stilled beneath my grasp, fear locking him rigid. I couldn’t see his face, but the way every muscle strained against mine told me everything. He was anxious. Every tendon went taut. Still… he said nothing.

“You pretending this conversation isn’t happening only makes you look worse than whatever you’re hiding,” I said, my tone calm but edged with quiet venom. “Have you always been such a coward? Or is it just this new life that inspired the trait?”

Arianna emerged from the snow like a henchman in the night, silent and seamless, the back door of the carriage already swung open. This time, we were riding inside. Mark wasn’t getting another chance to run. Martha climbed in first, settling onto the floor in the far back. I released my grip just enough to guide Mark forward, keeping my chest pressed tightly to his back. I forced him down, bending him at the waist, his hands bracing against the carriage floor. Martha reached out and gripped his collar, hauling him the rest of the way in.

I followed close behind, slamming the doors shut behind us.

Arianna’s reins cracked through the air as the carriage jerked forward, wheels shifting toward the snowy path we’d first entered from. Now seated in the back, we felt every jolt and crevice of the uneven road beneath us, each bump lifting us slightly from the carriage floor. The journey home would take another two hours, just enough time to dig deeper.

Mark now sat between Martha’s thighs; her arms looped tightly around his chest like a makeshift cage. His body twitched occasionally, but she held him firmly. I moved in a crouch across the swaying carriage, keeping eye contact with him as I approached. The soft heave of his breath was audible, chest rising and falling like a man awaiting a sentence. I sat directly across from him, close enough for him to feel surrounded. Because he was.

“So…” I started, my voice syrupy sweet, meant to coax rather than cut. The carriage swayed beneath us as we ascended up the city exit. “Tell me, why didn’t you return with Kleitos and Arianna?”

Mark’s lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes locked onto mine, unblinking. Behind his stare, I could see the wheels turning to escape. It was subtle, but besides his protruding stench, fear leaked from his pores, consuming the atmosphere.

Leaning forward, my voice was still soft, I asked. “Are you going to tell me, Mark? Or should I assume the worst? Because right now, that’s all I can see. But you still have a chance. You can explain yourself.”

Martha’s head dropped gently against the crook of his neck, her voice like honey. “You can trust her, Mark. She’s one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever met. I know you didn’t mean for all of this… The fire in the woods was an accident, wasn’t it?” Her tone matched mine: kind, hopeful… deceivingly gentle.

His body stilled at the softness in her voice, as if that gentleness alone was his weakness. Even his breath slowed, syncing with hers, as if hearing her find calm allowed him to do the same. “You’re right,” he breathed at last, but his words were meant for Martha, not for me. “I didn’t mean to start those fires.”

Martha’s gaze met mine in unison. Nodding, I mouthed: Continue. If she was the only one who could make him stop thrashing like a rabid animal, then fine. I would let her work, and I couldn’t afford another kick. If it landed, he’d be thrown through the carriage’s wall.

“And do you feel bad that it happened?” she asked next, her voice warm and light. Her loose brown hair brushed the curve of his neck, comforting him with the softness of their history. Her arms still held tight around his chest, but her thumbs began to circle gently against his ribs, a gesture meant to soothe, not restrain.

The air changed.

It was subtle, but undeniable. Her body exhaled something, a pheromone, or maybe a power of its own kind. It laced the small carriage cabin with an illusion of warmth, a mirage of safety. Even I could smell it, feel it. The tension that had been gripping my nerves began to ebb. That restless power in my chest cooled from fire to a soft electric tingle beneath the skin. Martha either realized what she was doing, emitting emotions like a pathokinetic, or she didn’t. They were rare in our culture; the few who wielded power were under strict watch from the royal family. Anyone with power strong enough was.

I was lucky enough to have my father’s watchful eye on me so that the King didn’t acquire me. I would have been a phenomenal soldier, but he argued that I should be treated as a lady. Swore I really wasn’t interested in my ribbons, and he had been right for the most part. When I did train them, it was under my father’s watchful eye.

Whatever flowed through the space I held for a moment, I had to shake my head to regain focus, my gaze fixed back on Mark’s face. He had looked just as relaxed as I felt. “In a way,” Mark stammered, “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Martha.”

And for a second, just a second, it sounded like he meant it.

“Oh, I know,” she hummed into his ear. Her lips brushed lightly against his cheek, and his head dipped toward the touch like an old reflex. “Then tell me,” She continued, her voice no longer quite so soft, “why didn’t you come back? Knowing Alex could’ve been in danger?” Her fingers stopped circling his ribs. Her expression changed, still calm, but now threaded with something steelier. “You know how I hate when you leave him to fend for himself.”

Mark’s face twisted at her words, like something painful had surfaced from long ago. “He’s not a child anymore, Martha,” he muttered.

I caught the flicker in her eyes, not rage, but a deeper fury, the kind only a parent can wield with precision.

“He isn’t,” she agreed softly. “But he’s alive, Mark. And you—” she drew in a breath, “you once asked me to stop being so soft, so forgiving. So now I’m honoring that request by saying this: I’m hurt.” Her voice stayed low, calm, but every word was sharp. “You left me to pick up your pieces after Matthew... after the car. And then you really left, didn’t you? You left Alex. You left me. He is our only child, Mark.” She whispered the last part like it was a prayer, or a curse.

The way Martha’s voice broke made my heart break with her. They had once lost a child, and Alexander became the balm to that wound. I could tell her heart still yearned to Mother Matthew the way she did Alex. Her eyes swelled, but not a single tear dared slip down her cheek.

Mark didn’t speak. His silence mirrored hers, and in it, there was real grief. The pain swam between them like a tether, pulling tighter until it blanketed the space around us. The once soothing air turned into a cold, heavy abyss, an emotional weight that tucked itself around us like a mother swaddling a child. Tight. Warm. Unforgiving.