I stared down at his fingers wrapped around my sleeve.
“Unhand me, Signor,” I said coldly. “I don’t believe you. You’re only trying to frighten me.” My voice didn’t waver, but deep inside, the seed of dread had already been planted. “I’ve heard enough. I shall take my leave.”
His eyes softened with something like pity, and he released me without protest. Together, we walked back through the silent house, the soft tap of our footsteps the only sound.
At the door, he paused with one hand resting on the polished brass knob.
“Take care, Lady Tocino,” he said quietly. “And be careful. The world is far darker than it seems.”
I said nothing as I swept across the threshold and into the light.
Outside, a groomsman stood waiting beside my horse. He gave me a roguish smile as he helped me mount, his gaze lingering too long on the slit in my skirts.
I swung my leg over the saddle without hesitation, ignoring propriety and decorum. Let the world stare. I would not ride like a lady today, but like a queen.
The groomsman fumbled with the leather straps, securing the sides of my gown so my legs could sit firmly in the stirrups. He continued to sneak glances at me, but I paid him no mind.
With my gloved hands gripping the reins and the sun warming my back, I gave a swift nudge of my heel. The horse sprang into motion, settling into a smooth canter as I descended the long gravel drive.
The wind teased through my hair. The sky stretched wide and blue above me, endless and unbothered.
But inside, I was a storm.
Frustration.
Confusion.
Fear.
Power.
These past two days had unraveled everything I thought I knew. About Balthazar. About myself. About the dagger.
My foot faltered as I stepped over the threshold of our opulent home.
It was too quiet.
Not the comforting hush of a peaceful morning—but a stifling, ominous stillness wrapped around me. A chill slithered down my spine, and I shivered, my fingers tightening around the folds of my cloak.
I moved toward the living room, every step an echo of dread.
The scene before me stole the breath from my lungs.
My family—my entire family—lay scattered across the floor like broken marionettes, their limbs twisted in grotesque, unnatural angles. Blood soaked the elegant rug, once a cherished gift, now a canvas of horror. Crimson soaked into the fibers, blooming like dark flowers across the pale threads.
Bile surged up my throat. I stumbled back, my hand gripping the doorframe to steady myself.
The cushions were drenched. The ivory settee splashed in arterial red. It looked like a slaughterhouse.
The silence pressed in, broken only by my ragged breathing. My vision blurred. My chest ached. I had lost everything—all in a single, devastating instant.
Tears streamed freely as I fell to my knees on the cold tile, my limbs folding beneath me.
But even as I wept, something began to shift.
Beneath the numbness, beneath the horror,freedomcoiled like a serpent. The lack of judgment. The absence of control. No more rules. No more expectations. No more pretending.
I was alone.
