33. Claire
Claire
Islammed the side of my palm against the door over and over, throwing myself into every strike.
I was not meant to be caged.
“Let me out!”
The nearest chair shattered to pieces when I hurled it against the door, but the wood didn’t even shudder. Staggering back, I bolted forward and slammed my shoulder into the wood with all the force I could gather.
Pain exploded down my arm.
I stumbled, caught my footing, tried again—only to trip over the hem of my own skirts and fall to the floor in a graceless heap. The second attempt fared no better.
The door remained.
I heaved myself upright, turning in a frantic circle. The room felt suddenly suffocating. The canopy bed loomed like a cage dressed in silk. The washroom door stood ajar, useless. The broken chair lay in pieces at my feet.
My vision blurred with tears, and a sob clawed its way up my throat.
No.
I covered my mouth with shaking fingers, trying to quiet my breathing. Panic tightened around my ribs, suffocating me.
No.
I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. I would not fall apart. Not here.
Not for him.
Think.
Panicking is what got you killed. I had seen it on the road, in the chaos of that skirmish with the bandits where hesitation meant blood in the dirt. Ash never froze, never crumbled.
She adapted and survived.
And before that, there had been hard days and harder lessons at the farm in Thistlebrook.
When something broke, you fixed it. When something went wrong, you found a way through.
Papa’s voice came, quieter but no less firm: You don’t give up, Claire.
A bitter laugh nearly escaped me. It was almost funny how I was only now learning to live by those words.
My gaze shifted. The oil lamp sat on the small table beside the bed, its flame flickering. My fingers drifted to the satin sheets, brushing over the smooth, delicate fabric so carefully chosen for a duchess, for a wife.
Or for a prize to be displayed.
A dark idea took root in my chest. It was reckless, and perfect. I stilled, staring at the lamp, at the sheets, at the room that had been dressed to make me docile, to make me grateful. Heat crept into my veins, slow and steady, until it burned.
If Garrick thought I would simply sit prettily in his gilded cage and wait for him to decide my fate...
He had gravely misjudged me.
My fingers curled into the silk, gripping tight. This room would never be mine; it was a prison and nothing more.
And I would rather reduce it to ash than remain inside it.
Let it burn, then.