The Heir Who Shouldn’t Love Me

CHAPTER 42 — THE ENVELOPE

POV: Mara

I lock myself in the back pantry. My heart hammers in my neck. Aster says nothing. That scares me more than any word.

The pantry is small, built of shelves and shadows. Smells cling to the air—dried thyme, onion skins, flour dust, vinegar ghosts. Normally it calms me. Rows of jars, neat labels, a universe I can understand. Today it feels like the walls lean in, listening.

The envelope is light. I break the seal with a fingernail. Inside: one small page. A child’s drawing in blunt lines—a tall tower with three windows and a little moon above it. Under the picture, just one word in a hand that knows me:

HOME?

The letters tilt a little, just like they used to when I first learned to write. I could trace them blind. The tower is wrong in all the right ways—the windows too high, the moon too close, the lines too straight for the real stone but perfect for memory. My breath trips over itself. I feel eight again, and five, and ten, all at once.

I sit on a crate. My hand covers my mouth. My eyes burn.

The crate’s edge bites into the backs of my knees; the wood creaks under me. Flour dust puffs up, sticking to my damp palms. I stare at the drawing until it doubles, blurs, becomes two towers, then four. The word at the bottom swims. My throat feels too narrow for air.

I remember that tower. I remember chalk dust on my hands when I was small. Hunger being patient.

Memory crawls up from the dark places: the echo of my own footsteps on stone, the way the tower hummed in certain storms, how the windows were too high to see out unless you jumped, and jumping was forbidden. The taste of stale bread we pretended was cake. The way the word home always felt like a question, even then.

Aster is quiet, then a whisper: Not now. Not safe.

Her voice is thin, almost hoarse, like she had to claw her way through old rubble to reach me. The fact that she doesn’t argue, doesn’t rage, makes my skin prickle. If even she thinks this is dangerous—

I stand. I move like sleep. I take the paper to the stove. The flame is small. I feed it the drawing. The edges curl and blacken. The moon on the paper goes dark. The word crumples, turns into ash, then nothing. Aster exhales, and I realize I held my breath for too long.

The breath comes back in a rush, sharp and shaking. The heat of the flame licks my fingers as the last of the paper collapses. Ash drifts up, tiny gray ghosts, and smudges against the inside of the stove before disappearing into the black. My chest aches like I just drowned and clawed up again.

I watch until there is no shape left to recognize, no tower, no windows, no moon—just a smear of gray. I tell myself that means it’s gone. I know better. The pantry feels colder, somehow, even with the stove cracking.

The door knocks. I flinch so hard the ladle clanks. “One moment,” I call, voice high.

The sound of the ladle hitting the side of the pot rings too loud. My hands fly to it, steadying metal that doesn’t need steadying. My heart tries to climb through my ribs. I hear Aster suck in a breath like she expects the door to splinter.

I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand. I wash my hands like the ink could still be there. I open the door.

I curl my hands under the stream until my skin goes numb, as if I can rinse away the memory along with the ash. By the time I reach for the latch, my fingers are trembling, not just from nerves but from chill. I drag in one more breath and pull.

Cael stands there. Close. Too close. He sees my face and flinches like someone hit him. He doesn’t push in, doesn’t reach. His gaze drops to my sleeve. Ash smudges the cuff.

His presence fills the thin doorway. For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks. His eyes flicker over my features, counting damage, searching for bruises that aren’t there.

He looks up, meets my eyes. He says nothing about the ash. “Water?” he asks, voice soft.

“Yes,” I say, too fast.

He pours from the kettle like he’s done it a thousand times. He gives me the cup. My fingers shake; his steady it without trapping me. Our hands touch. Heat jumps up my arm. I hate it. I love it. I drink.

His fingers withdraw slowly, as if he’s making sure I’ve truly taken hold before he lets go. The brief press of skin against skin leaves a trail of warmth up my wrist, a spark that has nothing to do with Aster and everything to do with him.

“Thank you,” I say. My voice works again.

He watches my throat as I swallow, then drags his gaze back up, polite, pained. His shoulders lower by a fraction, like seeing me drink is some proof he needed.

His jaw moves. “If someone sends you anything—”

“It’s gone,” I say.

The answer spills out, flat and final. My fingers tighten around the cup.

He nods. He doesn’t ask what it was. “You don’t have to carry this alone,” he says.

The words are careful, measured, like he weighed each one before letting it leave his mouth. His eyes are not careful at all. They’re raw for a second, too open, and then he shutters them, hides the ache under command again.

“I know,” I say. “But sometimes I need to.”

The truth tastes bitter and clean.

He swallows. A small, pained sound escapes him. He looks like he wants to step closer and like he knows he can’t. “Tell Silvie,” he says. “Tell Jax.”

His fingers flex by his sides, empty. He lists the names like armor he wishes he could wrap around me himself. Silvie: kitchen walls and quiet strength. Jax: steel with a conscience. The people he trusts when he can’t be everywhere at once.

“I will,” I whisper. I am not sure if I will.

The lie and the promise sit side by side in my chest, uneasily sharing a seat.

He steps back. “Council posted a note,” he adds, practical again. “Security audits. Citadel-wide. Hearthworks is on the list.”

The air cools between us as he shifts into duty. The softness folds away, tucked into the lines of his shoulders where no one can accuse it of existing. I feel the floor tilt in a different way now.

My mouth goes dry for a new reason. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

The word hits like a dropped pan. Tomorrow. Not soon. Not eventually. Tomorrow.

“Of course it is,” I say, and laugh once. It sounds like a cough.

The laugh cracks on its own edges and dies quickly, too embarrassed to stay. I press my palm flat against the side of the stove to steady myself. Heat seeps into my skin, but it doesn’t reach the chill in my bones.

He turns to go, then pauses. “Mara—”

The way he says my name almost undoes me. Too gentle, too full. I can feel another sentence forming behind it, something with corners that would cut if I tried to hold it.

“Don’t,” I say. “Not now.” I can’t hold kindness without breaking.

He nods and leaves. I watch the door. The stove pops. I look down at my clean hands, and they still feel dirty.