“My son,” she answers, her tone warm and pleased. “You came.”
I cross the room as if drawn on a chain. The floorboards do not creak the way they should. The air feels too light. Too still. I stop in front of her chair, my heart beating hard enough to shake my chest.
She stands with slow elegance, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her legs. She lifts her hand and places her palm flat over my sternum. Heat sinks through my shirt and into my skin. The touch is soothing and suffocating at once.
“You have been good,” she murmurs. “You have done so well. I am pleased with you.”
The praise cuts deeper than any scolding. I swallow hard. My shoulders loosen against my will.
“You married the girl I chose,” she continues. “Pretty little Peighton. The American with the soft eyes. And you have gotten her pregnant. Just as I wanted.”
Something sharp twists in my gut.
“I did not do it for you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her brows lift delicately. The voices hiss at my disobedience.
“I did it for her,” I force out. “Because I love her. Because I want her to carry my child. If I lose my mind, she will stay if shehas my blood, our children. She will not leave me for another man.”
The last words scrape my throat raw. Saying them aloud makes the fear real. Makes the possibility real.
Mother’s gaze flicks toward the window, then back to my face. Her eyes are sharper now. Hungrier.
“Another man,” she repeats calmly. “Do you mean Brutus?”
The name slices through me.
My knees snap as if someone kicked them from behind. I drop, palms slapping the rug, breath knocked from my lungs. Pain flares behind my ribs. The idea is poison, ridiculous, yet it blooms instantly. A seed of horror. Of doubt.
“No,” I rasp. “No. He is dead. He never touched her. He never—”
“Is the child yours?” she asks.
The room tilts. My vision narrows to a pinpoint. The voices roar with laughter, with accusations. Images flash: Peighton smiling at another man, leaning too close, saying his name in a soft voice. Brutus, Boris, it does not matter. A blur of male faces with their eyes on what is mine.
My hand clutches at my chest over her palm. I cannot breathe. My heart feels like it is trying to claw its way out.
Mother moves with slow, careful grace. She sinks to her knees in front of me and guides my head to her thigh, her fingers combing through my hair. I clutch at the hem of her nightgown like a child frightened of the dark.
“Do not worry, my darling,” she croons, stroking my head. “It is your child. Of course it is yours. You are the only one who matters.”
I want to believe her so badly I could rip my own heart out as proof.
“It is mine,” I say through clenched teeth. “My wife carries my child. My blood. Nobody else’s.”
“Good boy,” she whispers.
The praise sinks into that old, hollow place inside me. For a moment, there is only her touch and the crackle of the fire.
I blink.
She is gone.
The chair is empty. The air is cold. The lavender scent is fading.
I am alone on the floor of an empty room, on my knees like a madman praying to a god that never answers.
I push to my feet and stagger out of the tower. The staircase spins for a second, then steadies. By the time I reach the corridor, light has changed. Gray dawn has softened into a paler, warmer color. Morning.
