Chapter 37 - Two Wolves Watching
1283 Words
Sam stood beside the large wooden desk, flipping through one of the heavy catalogs that had been delivered from the estate archive earlier that morning.
The office inside Florence’s new cottage was quiet except for the soft sound of turning pages and the scratching of her pencil as she made small notes in the margins of a notebook.
Sunlight filtered through the wide windows, warming the room and catching the dust particles that floated lazily in the air.
Florence stood near the table, leaning slightly over the open catalog. Her expression was focused, her brow faintly furrowed as she studied a page filled with sketches of antique jewelry.
Sam watched her for a moment without speaking.
It had been only a few days since she arrived at the estate, yet she had already immersed herself completely in the work.
Most people, when confronted with such a task, would hesitate.
Florence did not.
She absorbed information quickly—almost frighteningly quickly.
Sam had shown her several different inventories, some dating back decades. She had understood the system immediately and already begun suggesting corrections to the classification of certain items.
He turned another page and pointed to a sketch of an old ceremonial dagger.
“This one,” Sam said. “What do you think?”
Florence stepped closer.
She studied the drawing carefully.
“The handle is wrong,” she said quietly.
Sam raised an eyebrow.
“How so?”
“The catalog lists it as bronze,” she explained. “But that engraving pattern was common in early silver alloys used during the western trade era.”
She pointed to the drawing.
“And the curvature of the blade suggests it was ceremonial, not military.”
Sam leaned back slightly.
He had expected intelligence.
He had not expected expertise.
“You’ve seen similar pieces before?” he asked.
Florence nodded.
“Yes.”.
She turned another page.
“These should probably be separated into a different section,” she added. “They’re not from the same region.”
Sam watched her carefully.
For a moment he allowed himself a quiet smile.
Anthony had not wasted his gold.
Florence continued making notes while Sam gathered the remaining catalogs.
They worked like that for nearly an hour.
The silence between them was comfortable, broken only occasionally by questions or observations.
Finally Sam closed the last book.
“That should be enough for today,” he said.
Florence stretched slightly, rolling her shoulders as she stepped away from the desk.
“That was actually interesting,” she admitted softly.
Sam chuckled.
“Most people don’t say that about inventory catalogs.”
Florence smiled faintly.
As she reached to close one of the books, Sam’s eyes caught something.
Her wrist.
It was slightly swollen.
Not dramatically, but enough to draw attention.
Sam frowned.
“When did that happen?”
Florence glanced down at her wrist as if noticing it for the first time.
“Oh,” she said casually. “It’s nothing.”
Sam stepped closer.
“That doesn’t look like nothing.”
Florence shrugged lightly.
“It’s from before.”
“The injury?”
She nodded.
“The treatment worked,” she added quickly. “Nothing unusual.”
Sam studied her expression.
He had seen enough injuries among warriors to recognize when someone was minimizing pain.
“May I look?” he asked.
Florence hesitated.
Then she extended her arm.
Sam gently took her wrist in his hand.
The bones felt mostly aligned, but as he pressed lightly along the joint, he felt resistance near a small section of cartilage.
He frowned.
“This didn’t heal properly.”
Florence sighed.
“It healed well enough.”
Sam shook his head.
“No.”
He released her wrist.
“I’ll send a healer.”
Florence shook her head immediately.
“There’s no need.”
“Yes, there is.”
“It doesn’t bother me much.”
Sam crossed his arms.
“That’s not the point.”
Florence met his gaze quietly.
He held it for a moment.
Then he said firmly,
“I’m sending a healer.”
She opened her mouth to protest again.
But Sam’s expression made it clear the discussion was over.
Florence sighed softly.
“Fine.”
Sam nodded.
“Good.”
A few minutes later they stepped outside onto the veranda.
Sam stopped abruptly.
The garden beds.
They were completely cleared.
Every weed had been pulled.
The soil had been turned and loosened.
The dead vines were gone.
Sam stared.
Florence noticed his expression.
“Oh,” she said lightly. “While I wait for the gardener to bring seeds, I thought I might as well prepare the soil.”
Sam looked back at her.
“You did this yourself?”
She nodded.
Sam exhaled slowly.
“You shouldn’t have.”
Florence tilted her head.
“Why not?”
“There’s a gardener.”
Florence walked down the steps of the veranda and sat on the lowest one.
“I’m used to doing it myself,” she said simply.
Sam followed her and sat beside her.
“I figured.”
For a moment they both watched the quiet garden.
The afternoon breeze moved gently through the trees beyond the yard.
Florence clasped her hands loosely in her lap.
After a moment she spoke again.
“I’m a little afraid,” she admitted.
Sam turned his head.
“Of what?”
She hesitated.
“That I’ll wake up.”
Sam frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Florence gave a faint smile.
“That this was all a dream.”
She looked toward the garden.
“And that I’ll have to get up early to cook breakfast for Marcus and his friends.”
Sam’s chest tightened.
He looked at her carefully.
“And did that happen often?”
Florence held her breath.
For a moment she did not answer.
Then she said quietly,
“Every day.”
Sam looked away toward the trees.
He remained silent for several seconds.
Then suddenly he reached over and pinched her arm.
Hard.
Florence jumped.
“What was that?!”
Sam shrugged.
“I wanted to make sure you know you’re not dreaming.”
Florence stared at him.
Then she burst out laughing.
The sound was warm and bright.
She nudged his shoulder lightly.
“You could have said that instead.”
Sam allowed himself a small smile.
But they were not alone.
From the edge of the park, hidden among the tall trees, Anthony watched them.
His arms were crossed behind his back.
His expression was calm.
Yet inside him there was a strange sensation.
Envy.
Sam and Florence were laughing.
Talking easily.
The moment looked natural.
Human.
Anthony felt none of it.
Inside him there was only silence.
Emptiness.
Feelings had once lived there.
Now they were gone.
And watching them together only reminded him of what no longer existed within him.
Anthony turned his gaze away slightly.
But his eyes drifted back to Florence.
She looked different here.
Alive.
At peace.
For a brief moment something stirred inside him.
Then it faded.
From the opposite side of the garden another figure watched.
Finn stood beside the tool shed, dressed in simple gardener’s clothes.
His hat cast a shadow across his face.
But his eyes were fixed on Florence.
Not with warmth.
Not with curiosity.
With calculation.
He studied her the way a hunter studies prey.
Carefully.
Patiently.
Anthony saw a woman who had brought unexpected change to his estate.
Finn saw an opportunity.
And somewhere in the quiet space between those two wolves…
Florence sat laughing beside Sam.
Completely unaware that she had already become the center of a game far larger than herself.
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