I saw someone else watching them from the window of the house. Oh, good, she’s on the right track. The man in the window was too hidden in the shadows to see his face. Alaric stood. He had her by the hair, twisting his fist into the dark strands as he dragged her through the snow and into the house. I moved to the window to watch. She fought him—scratching, striking, drawingblood, but he didn’t slow. He hauled her into the living room and released her with a shove.
She staggered back until the wall stopped her.
Alaric stood between her and the exit, his presence filling the space, dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made the air feel tight. He spoke, smiling as he did, but whatever he said made her freeze.
Another man entered then. Damien.
He addressed Alaric first, his tone sharp and questioning. When Alaric answered, the smile never left his face. It was wrong. Too pleased.
Damien said something quietly to his brother, words I couldn’t hear through the glass. Alaric listened, then crouched in front of Bexla, lowering himself to her eye level.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Whatever he told her made her fear spike hard enough that even I felt it through the barrier. He stood after, turned, and left the room. A door slammed somewhere deeper in the house.
Damien stayed.
He approached her slowly, careful not to startle her. He spoke gently.
"Are you hurt?"
She didn’t answer.
He tried again, saying something longer this time. Her posture shifted, just slightly, but she still didn’t respond.
More footsteps sounded above. Their father descended the stairs, his presence immediately heavy in the room. He took one look at Bexla and spoke.
“Get that Blythe trash out of my home!”
Alaric appeared again.
“Gladly.” Alaric smiled as he came toward them.
Damien stepped in front of Alaric.
“I’ll do it.”
Alaric’s glare cut toward his brother first, sharp and heated, before sliding back to Bexla. Even from the window, I felt the force of it, dense and violent, pressing outward like a physical thing. He had always been unpredictable.
“No,” Alaric said. “I will.”
His voice carried clearly through the glass.
“She needs to remember that she is trash. You’re being awfully kind to her.”
He reached for her then, his hand closing around the back of her neck. She stiffened but did not cry out. Not a sound left her as his grip tightened.
Damien hesitated only a moment before stepping aside.
Alaric hauled her toward the front door, dragging her across the floor and out onto the porch. Snow whipped around them as he leaned down, close enough that his mouth brushed her ear.
“Enjoy your freedom, Bexla. You’re about to understand the consequences of your mother’s actions.”
I watched her flinch.
Then he shoved her away and turned back inside, the door slamming shut behind him.
From where I stood, the threads of fate around her shuddered violently, then pulled taut—stretching, not breaking.
