The woods did not sound like woods should. There was no birdsong, no evening hum of insects. Just branches shifting under a breeze that felt colder than it had any right to be. James’s boots pressed into damp soil, every step too loud in his own ears, every crunch and c***k a reminder that silence had weight now. His hand was around Penelope’s wrist, not tight, just steady, the way one holds a lifeline.
They didn’t speak for a long time. The smoke from the estate still lingered behind them, faint in the wind, but his mind made it sharper. He could almost smell the heat of burning wood, the char of old furniture, the house his father had chosen as their “safe retreat” reduced to nothing but ember and ruin. The attack wasn’t a test anymore. It wasn’t subtle. Charles had lit the fuse, and Ja
