Beneath the hatred
1074 Words
❧
The next morning, Seraphina woke in the early light.
Her throat was raw. Her chest ached. Her body felt weak and heavy, as if she'd been crushed under a thousand pounds of stone.
She tried to sit up, but her body betrayed her. She collapsed back against the pillows, coughing turbulently.
"Careful, milady," a soft voice said.
Seraphina looked up. A young man was sitting beside her bed. He had soft eyes and a gentle smile.
"Who are you?" she croaked.
The young man smiled. "I'm Theodore. I'm the youngest son of Lord Alistair Sterling-Windsor. And I—"
"No," Seraphina cut him off, her eyes moving past him. "Not you. I'm referring to her."
She pointed to a woman standing near the window. The woman was dressed in a simple blue gown. She looked to be in her early forties, with kind eyes and a patient expression.
"I'm Martha, milady," the woman said, curtsying. "I've been assigned to take care of you."
Before she could say anything, the door swung open.
Marcus strode in, his eyes immediately locking onto Theodore.
"Are you supposed to be here?" Marcus demanded.
Theodore shrank back. "Neither are you," he muttered under his breath.
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "Did you just say something?"
Theodore's face went pale. He scrambled to his feet. "No, I was just leaving."
He hurried out of the room, his sketchbook embraced to his chest.
Marcus turned to Martha. His eyes scanned her with suspicion.
"What time did you get here to watch over her?" he asked.
Martha bowed instantly, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry, my lord. Master Julian called me because the twins' nanny was sick. I had to get the twins ready."
Marcus's face darkened at the mention of the twins. His jaw tightened.
"And when did you start running errands for Julian?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.
Martha dropped to her knees, her face pale. "Please, my lord. Spare me. I was only trying to help—"
The door swung open again.
Alexander walked in.
His eyes swept the room, taking in Marcus standing over Martha, Martha kneeling on the floor, Seraphina pale and weak in the bed. His expression didn't change.
Marcus clapped his hands together in an exaggerated gesture of mock surprise, a cruel smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look who's finally here. The groom who left his beloved wife to die."
Alexander's eyes flicked to his brother, cold and unimpressed. "Marcus," he said flatly. "Leave."
"But I was just getting comfortable," Marcus said, gesturing around the room. "You know, watching over your wife. Making sure she didn't die in the night. The things I do for family."
"I said leave." Alexander's voice was ice.
Marcus held his gaze for a long, deliberate moment. Then he smiled; a cold, knowing smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Of course, brother." He stepped toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "I understand how you feel. Imagining saving someone whose father killed your mother? Oh no, I can't even think about it. It's so dreadful."
He walked out, the door clicking softly behind him.
Alexander turned to Martha. She was still on her knees, Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leave us," he commanded.
Martha scrambled to her feet and hurried out of the room, not daring to look back.
Alexander and Seraphina were alone.
Alexander walked toward the bed. His face was a mask of cold fury. His ice-blue eyes bore into her like daggers.
"Who did it?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
Seraphina blinked, her mind still foggy from the poison. "Pardon?"
"I said," he repeated, his voice rising, "who laced my wine?"
"I didn't see who laced your wine," she said weakly.
"You liar," he spat. "I'm sure you plotted this. You and your family have been waiting for a chance to finish what your father started."
The accusation hung in the air like poison itself. Seraphina felt her heart c***k.
"If I had laced your drink," she said, her voice trembling with exhaustion and pain, "wouldn't you be here right now?
I drank that poison, Alexander. I took your death. And you stand here accusing me?"
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, just a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? Regret? She couldn't tell. It was gone before she could name it.
"You don't care, do you?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "You don't care if I live or die."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. His silence was answer enough.
"Someone tried to kill me last night," he said coldly, his voice flat and emotionless. "I need to know who it was. That's all that matters."
"That's all that matters?" Her voice broke, tears welling in her eyes. "I almost died, Alexander. I drank poison meant for you. I lay in this bed, barely breathing, while you stood in the ballroom feeling nothing. And you walk in here asking questions like I'm a suspect."
"You are a suspect," he said flatly. "You're a Hart-Ashford. Your father killed my mother. For all I know, you were in on it."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She felt the air leave her lungs.
"You think I tried to kill you?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You think I would do that?"
"I think I don't trust anyone," he said, stepping closer to the bed. His cold eyes bored into hers, unflinching. "Especially not you."
He leaned over her, his face inches from hers. She could feel the cold radiating from him, could smell the faint scent of whiskey.
"Tell me what you know," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Or I'll find out myself. And if I find out you had anything to do with this, I'll make sure you regret it."
"I don't know anything," she said, her voice hollow. "I was just trying to be your wife. And I almost died for it."
She turned her face away from him, staring at the wall. A tear slipped down her cheek, hot and bitter.
Alexander straightened. He looked at her "Get some rest," he said coldly. "You'll need your strength. We're not done talking."
He turned and walked to the door. His footsteps echoed in the silence. He didn't look back.
The door closed behind him.
- Writer
