He’s dead.
He’s...not coming back.
I balled my hands, forcing the grief to stay away.
No matter how often I thought about him, I always thought of him as alive and only a corridor away.
My brain played tricks on me. Whenever the old Hall creaked, I heard my name whispered in the walls. Whenever the wind whistled and twitched my curtains, I heard him beg for me to find him.
I was slowly going mad.
I can’t. Not yet. I have a job to do first.
I focused on the door to my room, ears straining for the noise. After my raid on the kitchens, I’d hauled my stash back to my quarters. The cook had given me a canvas bag to cart canned fruit, cured meat, packaged biscuits, and cereal. I’d hidden the food in the cupboard where I stored my needles, thread, and ribbon.
If they meant to trap me, at least I wouldn’t starve to death. I could stay strong and wait to strike them down.
Once I’d prepared myself for war, I’d deliberated if I should message my father. I’d wanted to tell him how much I loved him. How fortunate we were that this might be over soon.
If Vaughn and I died ...there would be no more Weavers. No more children to torment.
The debt would end for our lineage—some other poor Weaver blood would pay.
Not the way I would’ve chosen, but it was a conclusion I had to live with, a legacy I had to leave.
Jethro.
My heart fisted, but my eyes remained dry.
The noise came again.
It was slight but there.
A scratching, scurrying sound.
Rats, perhaps?
Or one rat in particular.
My heart clanged.
Daniel.
Had he come to honour his promise of raping me tonight? Our private meeting away from the view of Jasmine and Cut?
I looked at the windows. Pitch-black reflected my room in perfect symmetry, distorting colourful fabric, swirling them into some kaleidoscopic artwork.
After the meeting, a thunderstorm had crashed over the estate, drenching everything in damp darkness. I’d had my lights on ever since, reading and engrossed in the Weaver Journal.
Only select generations had added to the large tome. My mother hadn’t been diligent, and other snippets weren’t signed. It made me wonder if the Hawks gave them an outlet for truth, rather than used it against them. It wasn’t a requirement to write—but achoice.
My eyes darted to the clock above the turquoise fish tank.
11:00 p.m.
Shit!
Scrambling out of bed, I darted across the room. My bare feet padded over thick carpet, and the leggings and cardigan I’d worn all day were rumpled. My back and quads ached from the exercise I’d endured after returning to my room.
