I wanted to freeze the moment right there—his gentle expression, the sound of our laughter, the fragile illusion that the house itself had grown merciful.
But mercy never seemed to linger long at Blackthorn.
A thunderous knocking shattered the quiet.
It wasn’t the polite tap of a servant’s hand, but the commanding rap of someone who owned the air they breathed.
Voices rose beyond the door—Mrs. Ashby attempting to bar someone’s way, and another voice, shrill and venomous, slicing through the air with each syllable.
Sylum went utterly still. His jaw clenched. His eyes closed in brief, pained resignation before he muttered under his breath, “God help us.”
I sat up, clutching the blanket to my chest. “Who—”
“My aunt,” he said grimly. “The Dowager Duchess of Havenshire.”
Before I could respond, the bedroom door burst open, and in swept a woman as formidable as a storm.
Her Grace Isolde Thornton, widow of the late Duke of Havenshire, entered like a queen accustomed to bending worlds to her will. She was draped head to toe in emerald silk, her posture rigid, her chin high. A sharp, imperial perfume clung to her like a weaponized aura.
I squirmed beneath the blanket, trying desperately to shield my naked body.
“Sylum Deveroux,” she seethed, her voice cutting through the air like glass. “I cannot believe the scandal you have forced upon this family!”
“Aunt…” Sylum began, his tone controlled as he inclined his head.
She held up a gloved hand, silencing him.
“Do notAuntme,” she snapped. “Do you have any idea how it looks? A secret wedding, a woman of questionable parentage, and barely out of mourning no less. Society is baying like hounds, Sylum.”
Her piercing gaze fell upon me then, assessing, dissecting, and finding fault in every inch of my being.
“And you,” she breathed, the words weighted with contempt. “You managed to snake your way into our family after all.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. Heat rushed into my face. I wanted to speak. I wanted to defend myself and deny her accusations, but my voice withered before it found breath.
Her perfectly manicured brows lifted, impatient for a fight she already knew she would win.
“Aunt Isolde,” Sylum exhaled sharply, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”
“Enough?” she hissed. “Do you know what the paper called her this morning?The Madwoman of Mayfair.”
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Sylum moved toward her, a dark fury darkening his features. “Leave it.”
“I most certainly will not,” she spat, her gloved hands tightening around her fan. “You’ve disgraced the Deveroux name once with tragedy. I will not watch you do it again.”
“Get out,” he ordered, his voice low, dangerous. “Now.”
She froze—not because fear had touched her, she was too imperious for that—but because of the rare fire blazing in his eyes. She recalibrated swiftly, schooling her mouth into an elegant, venomous smile.
“Very well,” she snapped. “I’ll have Mrs. Ashby prepare the blue guest chamber. I shall remain for a week.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and swept from the room, lifting her chin as she passed Mrs. Ashby. I’d barely noticed the housekeeper still there in the doorway until that moment. She inclined her head to Sylum, murmured something too soft to catch, then quietly closed the door behind her.
Sylum pressed his palms to his temples and let out a long, weary breath. “Welcome to the family,” he muttered darkly.
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry… or perhaps I could simply slip through the floorboards and vanish forever.
