Page 70 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

Shame and frustration burned Skylar’s cheeks. “I know that, Mother,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “I’m not a fool.”

“Of course not, darling,” her mother soothed, reaching out to touch Skylar’s arm. “But I fear… I fear the Prince may develop feelings for you. For who you pretend to be.”

The words hung heavily between them, oppressive in their implications. Skylar thought of Arye’s intense gaze, his possessiveness, the way he’d begged her to stay. She swallowed hard.

“He might already have,” she admitted. “But it doesn’t matter.”

Relief washed over her mother’s face. “Which is why, my dear…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been considering your future—how to ensure your safety and happiness.”

Skylar tensed, sensing where this conversation was heading. She glanced down at Conley, who had fallen asleep in her arms, blissfully unaware of the turmoil surrounding him. Of his own fate.

“I’ve spoken with Marquis Edwards,” her mother continued, her voice growing stronger despite her obvious exhaustion. “He’s expressed interest in a marriage alliance. It would be agood match, Skylar. A life far from the capital and the burdens of our family.”

“Mother.” Skylar’s words cut through the air. “You want to marry me off, hide me away like I’m some sort of liability?”

The Dowager Duchess flinched at her daughter’s tone. “No, never that. But you must see how dangerous it is for you to remain near the Clawbornes. True to their name, they never release their prey once it’s in their claws.”

“Mother, please?—”

“This way, you can have a life of your own,” her mother pressed on, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “A chance at happiness.”

Skylar gently placed Conley in her mother’s arms, needing to move, to think. She paced the room, her mind racing. She remembered meeting the Marquis a few years ago—he was older than her and Arye, but undeniably handsome and charming. The kind of man any noble lady would be thrilled to marry.

But he wasn’t Arye.

The thought came unbidden, and Skylar banished it with a shake of her head. She couldn’t afford such thoughts. Not anymore.

“I understand your concerns, Mother.” Skylar turned to face the bed, her posture rigid. “But I’m not sure I can just… walk away from everything I’ve known. Everything I’ve ever been.”

Her mother’s expression softened. “Oh, my darling girl. I know it’s not easy. But you can finally be yourself. Isn’t that worth something?”

Tears pricked Skylar’s eyes as the weight of a lifetime of deception suddenly crushed her. She moved back to the bed, allowing her mother to pull her into a tight embrace.

“It’s over,” Skylar whispered, her voice muffled against her mother’s shoulder. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”

Her mother stroked her hair, just as she had when Skylar was a child. “Yes, my love. You did well.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, until Conley began to fuss. Skylar pulled away, wiping her eyes and trying to compose herself. She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders as if donning armor.

“I should let you rest,” she said, forcing a smile. “Both of you need your sleep.”

Her mother caught her coat as she turned to leave. “Skylar, promise me you’ll think about what I’ve said. About the Marquis.”

Skylar hesitated before nodding. “I will, Mother.”

At the door, she turned for a final glance, noticing her mother holding something in her hand—a small, ornate picture frame. With a jolt, Skylar recognized it as the painting of her late father that usually stood on the nightstand. Her mother was gently kissing the image before lowering it to show it to Conley.

“Look, my love,” her mother whispered to him, her voice thick with emotion. “You have a son. A true heir to carry on your legacy.”

The words pierced Skylar’s heart like a dagger. She watched as her mother’s tears fell silently onto the blanket, a mixture of joy and sorrow etched across her face. In that moment, Skylar understood the depth of her mother’s sacrifice—ten long years of pregnancy, the constant pain and discomfort, all to fulfill her late husband’s deepest wish.

She must have truly loved him.

The realization made Skylar’s chest ache with admiration and envy. Would anyone ever love her that deeply? Could she ever allow herself to be loved like that? By the Marquis, perhaps?

“Your Grace?” Fern’s soft voice broke through her thoughts. The healer stood beside her, carrying a tray of herbs and bandages, concern etched on her face. “Are you alright?”

Skylar nodded, composing herself. She glanced at Fern, remembering their previous conversation. “Fern,” she said softly, her words low and urgent. “What you mentioned last time, about your family in Thorncrest… get them out. Discreetly. War is coming, and it won’t be pretty.”

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