“That is not an excuse. If your family is dangerous, why didn’t you leave me alone?”
Marcus stared at her. For a moment, the mask slipped. Pain crossed his face.
Then he said quietly, “Because when I saw you, I saw my mother.”
Lyanna froze.
“Your mother?”
Marcus swallowed.
“She was pregnant when she entered this family. She thought love would protect her.”
Lyanna’s voice softened despite herself. “What happened to her?”
Marcus’s eyes darkened.
“She died.”
The room went silent.
“How?” Lyanna asked.
Marcus looked away.
“People said it was sickness. People said it was fate. But I know this family.”
Lyanna’s stomach turned.
“So you know they can destroy women,” she whispered.
Marcus’s voice was low. “Yes.”
“Then why—” Lyanna began, but stopped, because the answer was already there. He needed a child, and she needed shelter. Two needs colliding. One might survive. One might suffer.
Lyanna stood slowly.
“I want to leave.”
Marcus’s eyes widened slightly. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. But I cannot sit in a house where people are plotting around my unborn child.”
Marcus took a step toward her, urgent now.
“Lyanna, listen. Leaving is not safety. They already know you exist.”
Her heart hammered.
“So I am trapped.”
Marcus’s voice softened, though his eyes remained hard.
“You are protected here. With me.”
Lyanna shook her head. “Protection with conditions.”
Marcus exhaled. “Then I will change the conditions.”
Lyanna stared. “What?”
“No relocation without your consent. No private ceremony that hides you. No signature that steals your rights.”
Lyanna narrowed her eyes. “Why now?”
Marcus’s jaw clenched.
“Because I see what this is doing to you. And because I am tired of living like my family’s puppet.”
Lyanna’s voice shook. “And your inheritance?”
Marcus looked at her belly.
“If they want war, they will not use you as the battlefield.”
For the first time, Lyanna felt something she had not felt siden han dukket opp på veien.
Ikke tillit akkurat.
Men begynnelsen av det.
Liten. Forsiktig. Skjør.
Fortsatt i live.
Babyen kom på en regnfull natt.
Torden rullet over himmelen som fjerne trommer. Lyannas fødsel var lang. Smerten kom i bølger som sint vann. Marcus kjørte henne til klinikken selv, hendene hans var stødig på rattet, kjeven hans stram som om han kunne holde verden sammen med kraft.
Da babyen endelig gråt, gråt Lyanna.
Ikke høyt. Ikke dramatisk. Bare tårer som gled nedover kinnene hennes da sykepleieren plasserte den lille kroppen mot brystet hennes.
“Det er en gutt,” sa sykepleieren.
Marcus sto bak dem, og for et øyeblikk så det sterke ansiktet hans nesten skjøre ut.
Arv nøkkelen.
Familievåpenet.
Den lille uskyldige livet.
Lyanna holdt ham tett og hvisket, “Du vil ikke være noen ofring.”
Marcus lente seg inn, stemmen lav.
“Han vil ikke være.”
Men selv da han sa det, åpnet sykehusdøren seg.
Tante Rebecca kom inn med to menn bak seg. Øynene hennes gikk rett til babyen. Hun smilte som en person som ser skatter.
“Velkommen,” sa hun mykt, “til Hail-blodlinjen.”
Lyannas hjerte sank.
Marcus’ kropp strammet seg som en vakthund som sanser fare.
