Chapter 4

The Ashworth manor was silent when I returned.

Not the comfortable hush of a home at rest. The hollow quiet of a place that had never truly been inhabited.

I discharged myself against physician's orders. Maren tried to hold me back, fingers circling my wrist, eyes still swollen.

"My lady, please. Your body needs time —"

"There's nothing left to mend."

She let go.

The car delivered me to the front entrance. I walked through the wrought-iron gates alone. The sentries didn't spare me a glance. They never had.

Inside, my footsteps rang against marble. Three years I'd lived here. Three years of drifting through these corridors, dining at that table, lying in that bed.

It had never once felt like mine.

I went straight to the bedroom. Our bedroom — the one we'd shared in name only.

His scent saturated everything — sandalwood and old smoke and the unmistakable copper-edge of ancient blood. My own blood stirred weakly, still drawn to our bond even now.

I opened the wardrobe. His side: bespoke suits, Italian leather, timepieces worth more than my mother's entire estate. My side: designer labels his steward had selected. Befitting a lady of the House.

Nothing that was ever truly mine.

I began packing.

Not the gowns. Not the jewels. Not the furs meant to make me look as though I belonged.

Just the things from before. A cardigan my mother had knitted. A photograph of her laughing in our old garden. The sketchbook filled with nursery designs that would never be realized.

I was folding the cardigan when I heard his footsteps.

My hands stilled.

That stride. I'd recognize it anywhere — the measured gait of a man who owned every room he entered.

The door opened.

Damien stood in the threshold.

He looked... depleted. Shadows carved beneath his eyes. Stubble darkening his jaw. His shirt creased — Damien Ashworth, who never had a thread out of place.

In his hand, a gift box. Pale blue. Silver ribbon.

"I heard you were in the blood ward."

Flat. Remote. Like reciting from a prepared statement.

My heart stuttered regardless.

He came, my blood whispered. He came to see us.

"The physicians said you discharged yourself early." He stepped inside, placed the box on the dresser. "You should rest. Rebuild your strength."

I watched him move. Watched how he maintained the distance — three feet, perhaps four. Near enough to appear present. Far enough to remain untouched.

Then he looked at me.

Really looked.

His gaze traced my face. The hollows in my cheeks. The bruises I couldn't conceal. The way my clothes draped loose on a body that had surrendered too much.

Something shifted behind his eyes.

He crossed the room.

One step. Two. Until his scent enveloped me, until the bond between us hummed — dim but still breathing.

My breath snagged.

"Damien..."

His name escaped me. Barely a whisper.

His hand lifted. His knuckles skimmed my cheek — tentative, almost hesitant. His thumb traced the edge of a bruise along my jaw.

"Who did this to you?"

His voice had dropped. Low. Rough. That protective edge I'd only ever heard him use for her.

"Revenants," I managed. "In the blizzard."

His jaw hardened. Crimson bled through his irises.

"I'll have every last one of them hunted down and staked."

For one impossible moment, I believed him. Believed this meant something.

His gaze dropped to my mouth. The air thickened. My lips parted. His hand slid from my cheek to the curve of my neck, his palm warm against my pulse. I could feel my heartbeat hammering against his fingers.

Maybe, I thought. Maybe this time —

His phone rang.

The sound cracked through the room like a pistol shot.

Celeste.

Of course.

His hand fell away. He retreated a step. Cold rushed in where his warmth had been.

"I have to take this."

He answered before I could draw another breath.

"Celeste." His voice softened. Warmed. Tender in a way never once directed at me. "Slow down. What happened?"

I couldn't make out her words — only the high, quavering pitch of distress.

"I'm on my way." Already moving toward the door. "Stay put. I'll be right there."

He paused at the threshold. Glanced back — but not at me. Through me.

"Rest. I'll be back later."

He wouldn't be. We both knew it.

The door closed. His footsteps receded. The engine roared to life outside.

Then — silence.

I stood there, his touch still searing my skin. My blood howling at the loss.

A hundred and one times. A hundred and one times he'd nearly seen me, nearly stayed. And a hundred and one times, she called.

I reached for my phone.

Vivienne picked up on the second ring.

"Elara?" Cautious. Hopeful. "Is everything —"

"I'm leaving. Tomorrow."

Silence. Then a slow exhale.

"About damn time." I could hear the grin in her voice. "I've had a room waiting for you for two years. What do you need?"

"A fresh start."

"Done. I promise." A beat. "What about the bond?"

"The Crimson Sanctum. Neutral ground. They can sever it."

"You're certain?"

I surveyed the bedroom. His scent clinging to everything. The pale blue box sitting untouched on the dresser.

"I've never been more certain of anything."

"Then I'll see you soon." Her voice gentled. "You're going to be all right, Elara. Better than all right."

I hung up.

The gift box waited. I opened it.

A necklace. White gold. A ruby pendant shaped like a crescent moon.

Beautiful. Expensive. Chosen by someone who didn't know me at all.

I set it beside the others. The earrings from our first anniversary — his steward's taste. The bracelet that arrived by courier. The ring his grandmother selected because he couldn't be bothered.

I closed the velvet lid.

Then I walked to the nursery.

I'd decorated it myself. Walls the color of pale moonlight. A mobile of silver stars and tiny moons. Hand-painted murals of children chasing fireflies through twilight gardens.

The bassinet sat in the corner. Dark walnut, carved with ancient protection sigils I'd spent weeks researching.

I touched the railing.

My baby would have slept here. Would have gazed up at those painted moons with wide, wondering eyes.

Would have.

The first sob shattered through my chest.

I sank to my knees. Grief crashed through the numbness — raw, animal, boundless. I wept for the child I'd never hold, for the nursery that would remain empty, for three years of devotion to a man who was never mine.

When the tears stopped, I was hollow. But my hands were steady.

The mobile came down first. Little moons and stars, hung with such hope. They came apart easily. Piece by piece.

Then the murals. I peeled the canvas in long strips. The children vanished. The gardens dissolved. The painted sky went dark.

The bassinet took longer. I broke it down with my bare hands. Splinters bit into my palms. The sigils cracked. The walnut groaned as it splintered apart.

When I finished, the room was bare.

Tomorrow, I would go to the Crimson Sanctum.

Tomorrow, I would sever the bond.

And I would never stand in this room again.