Page 25 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

The person staring back at her was a stranger—hard eyes, set jaw, not a hint of the turmoil raging beneath the surface. Good. This was the face the world needed to see. Skylar tossed a few extra coins on the bed, more than enough to ensure discretion.

Unwilling to risk being spotted, Skylar opted for caution. She left through the window, landing with a soft thud in a dark alley untouched by the morning sun. The cobblestones were slick with last night’s rain, the air thick with the stench of refuse and stale urine. Her muscles protested the sudden exertion, still aching from her earlier activities. Skylar ignored the discomfort, pushing it to the back of her mind along with all her other weaknesses.

A carriage waited at the end of the street, its driver hunched against the chill. As Skylar approached, he straightened, touching his cap in a show of respect. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her appearance—the fine clothes, the proud bearing.

“Where to, m’lord?” he asked, his voice gravelly from sleep or drink—possibly both.

“The Anathemark Estate,” Skylar replied, climbing into the carriage. The leather seats creaked beneath her weight, the interior smelling faintly of tobacco and polish. She settled back, allowing herself a moment of respite.

As the carriage lurched into motion, the clop of hooves on cobblestone creating a steady rhythm, the driver’s voice drifted back to her. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but you ought to be careful in these parts. Handsome young men like yourself… well, they’ve been known to disappear ‘round here. ‘Specially this time of year.”

Skylar frowned, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather running down her spine. Her mind raced, cataloging potential threats. “What do you mean?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.

The driver glanced back, his wrinkled face creased with concern. In the growing light of dawn, she could see the network of burst blood vessels across his nose and cheeks, testament to years of hard drinking. “Strange business, it is. Once a year, like clockwork, some poor lad goes missing. Never to be seen again.”

“Strange indeed,” Skylar murmured, more to herself than the driver. “Any idea why?”

“Can’t rightly say, m’lord.” He shrugged, his eyes returning to the road. “I reckon it’s best not to speculate. Safer that way.”

Skylar remained silent for a moment, her posture tense. She filed the information away for later consideration. “Just get me to the estate,” she ordered, her tone clipped. “Quickly.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence, leaving Skylar alone with her thoughts. As the familiar silhouette of the Anathemark Estate loomed on the horizon, her stomach twisted with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The sprawling manor house, with its soaring turrets and imposing stone walls, had once been a source of comfort. Now, it felt more like a prison—a gilded cage that held all her secrets and lies.

Home. But for how much longer?

The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance. Skylar stepped out, her boots crunching on gravel. The sweet scent of lavender washed over her, making her nose wrinkle involuntarily. The smell brought back a flood of memories—her father’s infectious laugh, her mother’s gentle touch, the weightof expectations that had been placed on her shoulders from the moment she was born.

Why does everyone cherish these damn flowers?

Row upon row of purple blossoms stretched into the darkness, their fragrance a constant reminder of her family’s legacy. The scent seemed to cling to everything, seeping into her clothes, her skin, her very being.

And there, waiting by their original carriage with an expression of barely concealed annoyance, stood Melody. The servant’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest, foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the ground. Skylar’s heart sank. She’d completely forgotten about her instructions to the servant.

“Your Grace,” Melody said, her voice clipped. Her brown eyes, usually warm with motherly affection, were now hard with disapproval. “I trust you had an… enjoyable morning?”

Skylar’s expression remained neutral, though she felt a twinge of discomfort at Melody’s tone. “Melody, I?—”

“Save it,” the servant cut her off, surprising Skylar with her boldness. In all their years together, Melody had never spoken to her this way. “I’ve been waiting here for over two hours. A noble lady wouldn’t keep her servants waiting while she… cavorts.”

Shame burned hot in Skylar’s cheeks, the flush creeping down her neck. She wanted to apologize, to explain, but Melody barreled on, her words sharp and biting.

“And approaching men like that! It’s unseemly, my lady. You’re acting more like a man than a proper noblewoman, a Duke’s daughter!”

Skylar felt a flash of irritation, quickly suppressed. She straightened, her voice taking on an edge of authority. “Melody,” she said firmly, “I understand your concern, but I don’t need a lecture right now.”

Melody’s eyes widened, a mix of emotions flickering across her face—worry, realization, and a touch of remorse. Herposture softened as she dipped into a gentler curtsy. “Of course, Your Grace. I… I apologize.” She paused, her voice softening further. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”

Skylar sighed, the anger draining away as quickly as it had come. She was tired, so tired of it all. Of the lies, the secrets, the constant need to be someone she wasn’t. “No, I’m sorry, Melody. You’re right, I shouldn’t have kept you waiting. It won’t happen again.”

An awkward silence fell between them, broken only by the soft chirping of awakening birds and the distant neigh of horses in the stables. Skylar cleared her throat, gesturing toward the entrance. The massive oak doors loomed before them, intricate carvings of the Anathemark crest, a tree sapling encircled by lavender. “Shall we? I’m eager to see my mother.”

Melody nodded, relief evident in her posture. As they entered the grand foyer, the familiar scents of home enveloped Skylar—that cursed violet flower, of course, but also lemon oil for the wood, and the faint mustiness of old books. It was comforting and stifling all at once.

They made their way through winding corridors, their footsteps echoing off marble floors. Portraits of Anathemark ancestors lined the walls, their stern faces seeming to judge Skylar as she passed. She avoided their painted gazes, focusing instead on the path ahead. Each step brought her closer to her mother, closer to the reality of her situation.

As they neared her mother’s chambers, a low moan of pain reached Skylar’s ears. Her heart clenched, guilt washing over her anew. She should have visited her mother more often, should have been here to support her through this ordeal. Instead, she’d been off playing soldier and indulging in fleeting pleasures while her mother suffered.

Fern, the family’s trusted healer, met them at the door. Her kind face was drawn with exhaustion, dark circles prominentbeneath her eyes. The scent of medicinal herbs clung to her clothes—chamomile, valerian, and something sharper that Skylar couldn’t quite identify. “Your Grace,” she said, bowing slightly. “How long it’s been since your last visit. The Dowager Duchess will be so pleased to see you.”

---