Chapter Thirteen: Shadows in Soft Light
The next day, Nuria woke with her face pressed into a pillow slightly damp from tears she didn't remember shedding. A strange ache pulled through her lower back, and her stomach twisted with the same nauseating fog that had plagued her quietly for days. She sat up slowly, one hand pressing against her abdomen.
The room was still. Asa wasn't there. His side of the bed had been cold for hours, and though the silence was calming in one breath, it was stifling in the next.
A knock echoed—soft, tentative.
"Come in," she murmured.
It was Mayla, the youngest maid, a gentle girl with coiled hair always pulled into a neat bun. "Good morning, Mrs. Leclair," she said with a bow of her head. Nuria winced at the formality.
"Mayla… just call me Nuria. Please."
"Yes, ma'am. I brought your tea. Ginger and lemon… for your stomach," she added, hesitating.
Nuria stilled. "How do you—?"
Mayla flushed. "We notice things, ma'am."
There was no venom in her tone, only an uneasy kindness. The tray trembled slightly in her hands.
Nuria took it gently. "Thank you."
Mayla curtsied and left without another word, the door closing softly behind her.
The tea was warm, but her fingers trembled around the cup. A gust of wind brushed against the windowpane, and for a moment, she felt transported—back to that mansion. Back to that night. Gunshots. Screams. The cold mask against her skin.
She blinked hard.
It was just a dream. A dream made foggier by time. But something in her body remembered what her mind still buried.
---
Elsewhere in the house...
Milo moved quietly through the long hallway, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back. He had served Asa's father long ago—back when his name still meant safety and love.
He stopped outside the study.
Through the slight crack in the door, he saw Asa hunched over a desk, one hand dragging through his black hair, eyes bloodshot but glinting with something raw. Something feral.
"She's changing," Asa muttered.
Milo said nothing. Not yet.
Asa's gaze was distant. "She doesn't smile the same anymore. She barely looks at me."
A pause. Then, he chuckled darkly. "Do you think it's because I love her too much… or not enough?"
Milo cleared his throat gently, finally stepping in.
"I believe… it's because you are at war, sir," he said calmly, "with yourself."
Asa's eyes narrowed. "Don't play wise old man with me, Milo."
But Milo bowed his head. "Forgive me."
Asa rose from his chair, storming toward the large bay window. "I thought having her would be enough. That if I made her mine, completely, it would stop this burning."
"And has it?" Milo asked softly.
Asa's fingers curled against the glass.
"No," he said. "It's made it worse."
---
Downstairs…
The other maids gathered in the corner of the kitchen. Cleo, the tall, sharp-featured one, poured herself coffee as whispers curled in the steam.
"She flinched yesterday," said Ruth, her fingers twisting a dishcloth. "When he touched her arm."
"She always looks pale now," added Mayla. "And she barely eats."
"She's not one of us," Beatrice muttered. "But she doesn't deserve this."
The women fell into a quiet that spoke volumes.
Milo passed behind them silently, offering a nod. They straightened instantly.
He didn't reprimand them.
Because he agreed. She doesn't deserve that.
---
That evening…
Asa returned to the bedroom late, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to his jacket. Nuria was already in bed, pretending to be asleep.
But she wasn't.
She felt the mattress shift beneath his weight, his hand brushing her back. Then his fingers slipped beneath the blanket—light, at first. Hovering.
Then pressing.
Her breath caught. His touch moved along her spine, tracing the shape of her silently. It wasn't lust that vibrated from him—it was something darker. Something like hunger wrapped in grief.
Then…
His hand stilled around her neck. Not touching. Hovering. Barely an inch from skin.
His breath trembled.
Her eyes snapped open, and his expression changed like a switch. A smile broke across his face like a mask slipping back into place.
"You're awake," he whispered, brushing her hair back tenderly. "You looked so peaceful…"
She tried to smile. "You came back late."
"I had things to handle."
He leaned down, kissing her temple. "You're cold," he murmured. "I'll warm you."
She nodded, but her heart galloped in her chest. His arms coiled around her like vines, too tight to escape.
And still… she stayed.
---
Later, in the solitude of the bathroom...
Nuria locked the door. The light above the mirror flickered, weak and yellow. She stared at her reflection, skin pale, eyes tired, lips cracked.
Her hand moved to her abdomen.
She hadn't bled in nearly two months.
Her breathing shallowed.
She didn't know if she was afraid for herself… or afraid for the life within her.