Chapter 22 #2
“Care for her,” Zara said, her voice coated in poison. A malicious glint shimmered in her eyes like a serpent catching light. “Don’t do anything stupid—don’t even think of harming her.”
She stooped and picked up the placenta with one bare, blood-slicked hand, lifting it like a grotesque trophy.
“And now,” she purred, turning, “I’ll be on my way.”
She paused at the threshold, her eyes locking onto mine. I felt the weight of her stare burrow into my chest and curl around my ribs.
“I’ll be watching you.”
Then she was gone, leaving behind a thick, suffocating silence that bloated the room. I could still smell her—the coppery tang of blood, the scent of ancient loathing, the ghost of power.
I looked down at the infant in my arms.
I felt… nothing.
She was lovely, yes. Tiny, soft, and impossibly delicate, her damp blond curls clung to her scalp, and her wide blue eyes stared up at me—not with love but with ancient knowing. There was something too aware in her gaze, something unnerving.
She was Balthazar’s child.
And I had refused him what he wanted most.
I should have hated her.
But as the memory of Balthazar’s voice played in my mind—“Let’s have a child… build a family…”—I felt something foreign rise in my chest. Not love. Not guilt. Something deeper. Tenderness, tinged with regret.
And yet… I was still me.
Wickedness was my sacred currency. I bathed in it. I craved it. Every sin I committed lit my veins with delicious fire. I thrived in the dark.
Philip entered the room with wide, wonderstruck eyes. He gasped softly as he saw the child cradled against me.
“She’s beautiful,” he murmured. “Truly… perfect.”
He stepped closer and gently took her from my arms. I watched his face shift as he rocked her, his brow furrowing.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching toward the baby’s tiny neck.
Dangling against her chest was a small charm—a silver pendant shaped like a dagger, impossibly detailed for its size.
My breath caught.
I had never seen it before.
Where had it come from?
Oh my god…
I gave birth to Balthazar’s child.
And now this.
The charm… wasn’t just jewelry.
It was a message.
Or a warning.
Philip turned to me, eyes wide with confusion and something that looked like fear. “Where did this come from?” he asked, holding up the tiny dagger pendant.
“It was my mother’s,” I said smoothly, though my eyes refused to meet his. “I slipped it around her neck after she was born. My mother would’ve adored her.” I added, softer, “God rest her soul.”
Philip stared at me for a long moment. Then back to the baby.
“But it wasn’t there before,” he said. “When I picked her up right now—I swear—it wasn’t there.”
“You were probably just taken in by her face.” I forced a wide and gentle smile, pushing every ounce of performance into it. “She’s captivating.”
Philip didn’t smile back. His frown lingered, deepening as he looked between me and the child. But he said nothing more.
Inside, my mind screamed.
He knows.
Or worse—Balthazar knows. Knows where I am. Knows the baby has been born. Knows everything.
The charm… was proof. A declaration. A stake in the ground.
I needed to disappear.
I needed to run.
The next full moon was weeks away. Too long. Too dangerous.
I couldn’t wait. I had to go now. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Before he came.
“What should we name her?” Philip asked brightly, unaware I was panicking
“You name her,” I said, barely holding my composure. My voice came out brittle. Hollow.
He looked down at the infant in his arms, studying her for a long moment before the name finally left his lips.
“Emily,” he said, smiling. “We’ll call her Emily.”
He stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb, utterly transfixed by her.
“Perfect,” I said, the word like ash on my tongue.
Perfectly damning.
Perfectly cursed.
A name I would carry like a knife beneath my ribs—for the rest of my life.
Several days had passed since Emily’s birth, yet I still couldn’t soothe her. No matter how tightly I held her, how softly I whispered or rocked her through the long, sleepless nights, her cries never ceased.
And I knew why.
She felt it—the truth I never dared speak.
I hadn’t wanted her.
And now that she was here, she was a constant, screaming reminder of everything I had tried—and failed—to escape.
The only thing keeping me from falling apart entirely was the thought of John James. I had to find him. Before Balthazar found me, I had to uncover the truth before he tore whatever scraps of freedom I had left. That meant leaving Philip and leaving Emily.
I packed everything I needed in the barn days ago—a satchel stuffed with clothes, a belt, a blade, and some food—jerky and pemmican. The plan was ready. All that was missing was the courage to follow through.
Each time I tried to walk away, something invisible held me back. A cry. A glance. A soft, sleeping sigh.
But today felt different.
Today, I knew she would grow to hate me.
If Emily ever discovered who I truly was—what I’d done—disgust would twist her heart. She would despise me.
So, I decided that she would never know me—not really. It was better that way.
As I went to the bedroom to dress, the thought wrapped around me like a shroud. Then Philip called from the kitchen, cheerful and full of hope.
“Should I make breakfast for Emily?”
He wanted her to smile—just once—before the day ended. Every day, he tried something new.
He didn’t see the truth.
I had to go now.
Without a word, I returned to the kitchen. I walked up to Philip and hugged him tightly, holding on for just a moment too long. Then I bent down and kissed Emily on the forehead, the tears already rising in my throat.
Into her tiny ear, I whispered, “It’s best if you never know.”
And then I left.
Their voices—soft and sweet—faded behind me as I slipped out the front door.
I didn’t look back.
I raced to the barn, snatched my rucksack, and fled into the gray morning.
I traveled for days, slipping from inn to inn with the small stash of coins I’d taken from Philip. I needed distance—miles and memory—between me, that man, and the child I left behind.
I knew Philip would come looking.
He loved too earnestly, too hard.
But love couldn’t stop what was coming.
When my money ran out, I sold my body to a soldier for one night of warmth and silence.
Then I slit his throat and took what little he had—paper currency, Spanish dollars, a few British pounds.
The hunger in my gut faded. The guilt never did.
My feet throbbed as I pushed deeper into the wilderness, far beyond the comfort of towns or well-worn paths. I glanced over my shoulder every few steps, jumping at every rustle, snapped twig, and shadow that might have been Balthazar.
I imagined him riding toward me on his black stallion, face twisted in rage, eyes full of betrayal.
It haunted me.
He haunted me.
As the trees thickened and the trail faded, my mind turned traitorous. Whispers flitted through the wind, giggles and cackles curling like smoke. Faces warped in the shadows. Trees bent at impossible angles. The path beneath me rippled like water.
I told myself it was exhaustion. Starvation. Madness.
And then the fear took root.
The stories I’d heard resurfaced—Native warriors, ruthless and wild. Strangers shot on sight.
I laughed it off, convinced my beauty would protect me. Seduction had always been my armor. Surely no one would harm a woman like me.
But fear… it began to whisper—turn back.
Seek forgiveness.
Go home.
Instead, I pressed forward.
Then, they appeared.
A group of fierce warriors encircled me, silent as ghosts. Their eyes burned with suspicion, their bodies adorned in vibrant, ceremonial fabrics, and their spears gripped tightly in their hands. Their expressions were hard and unreadable.
I didn’t understand their language. I had no weapons. No escape.
Desperation surged. I stepped toward the tallest one, forced a sultry smile, and trailed my fingers along his jawline.
“I’ll give you what you want,” I whispered, voice dipped in honey.
His grin was cruel.
He licked his lips and looked me over like I was already his. Then he barked something to the others.
They all laughed.
And I knew I’d made a mistake.
I was dragged through the forest, kicking and screaming, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. Branches whipped against my face, roots snagged my feet, and they pulled me onward—until we crested a hill and reached a small, weather-worn cabin nestled in the trees.
There, another man waited.
Not like them.
Caucasian.
He spoke the same foreign language as the warriors—fluid and confident—but his eyes were different.
They were warm and understanding. He glanced at me, then turned to the warriors, speaking firmly but without hostility.
In exchange for a bushel of corn and some bundled animal hides, the warriors nodded and backed away.
Just like that, they were gone.
And I was spared.
Relief flooded me.
But only for a moment.
Because now I stood in the presence of this man—this stranger who had just bought my safety. What price would he demand?
“Do you speak English?” he asked gently.
“A little,” I murmured, watching the door like a hawk, every nerve bracing to run.
“Good.” He stepped closer and extended a hand. “I won’t hurt you.”
I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
His hand hovered in the space between us. I looked down at it through narrowed eyes. My skin was caked in dirt, my hair a wild, tangled mess. I hadn’t bathed in days. What reason could I possibly have to trust him?
He gestured again, slower this time. “I promise. My name is John James.”
The name hit me like a blow to the chest.
John James.
My knees buckled.
The room spun.
And the last thing I saw was his face before everything went black.