Page 67 of Crown of Blood

"Marina," she corrects, with a flash of her old self. "Mrs. Sutton was my mother-in-law, and that woman never approved of anything I did."

I nearly drop the teacup. This is the most lucid she's been in months—aware enough to correct someone, to reference her past.

Hope flutters in my chest.

"Mom?" I press the warm cup into her hands. "Do you know who I am today?"

She looks at me, a furrow between her brows. "You're kind," she says finally. "You always bring me tea just how I like it."

And just like that… the hope withers.

I force a smile, swallowing the disappointment that never gets easier to bear.

Luca takes the armchair while I perch on the edge of my mother's bed. We talk about nothing—the weather, the flowers in the garden outside her window, the book on her nightstand that I know she can no longer follow. I fill the silence with gentle words, while Luca observes, uncharacteristically quiet.

Then something changes. My mother sets down her teacup with a sudden clarity in her movements.

"Bianca," she says, and my name on her lips sends a shock through me. "My little Bianca."

I freeze, afraid to move, to breathe, to break whatever fragile thread of memory has suddenly connected.

"Mom?" My voice cracks. "You know me?"

She smiles. A real smile, one I haven't seen in years. "Of course I know my daughter." Her gaze shifts to Luca, sharpening. "And you… your eyes... they're just like his."

"Like whose?" Luca leans forward, sudden interest glinting in his expression.

"Be careful of men with wolf eyes, Bianca," my mother continues, gripping my hand with surprising strength. "They see everything. They take everything."

"Mom, it's okay." I try to soothe her, but she's agitated now, glancing toward the door as if expecting someone to burst through.

"They'll find you if they know," she whispers urgently. "They always find what belongs to them."

"Who will find her?" Luca asks, voice gentle but insistent.

My mother's eyes grow distant again, the brief light of recognition fading as quickly as it came. She looks at us both with polite confusion.

And just like that the moment passes like smoke through fingers

"Was I saying something?" she asks, reaching for her tea with shaking hands. "I'm sorry. I get so muddled these days."

The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I stand, reaching for the hairbrush on her nightstand—a silver-handled antique that once belonged to her mother.

"Let me brush your hair," I say softly. "Like you used to do for me."

She submits willingly, turning her back to me with childlike trust. I run the brush through her silver strands, remembering how she once did the same for me—singing softly, telling me stories of princesses and dragons, making me feel safe in a world that often wasn't.

Over her shoulder, I catch Luca watching us, something unfathomable in his expression. Not coldness, not calculation. Something deeper. Something almost like longing.

When we leave, I kiss my mother's forehead, promise to return soon, and walk away knowing she'll forget I was ever there before I reach the parking lot. The familiar ache settles in my chest. That heavy grief for someone who's still here, but remains just beyond my reach.

In the hallway, Luca's hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with mine in a gesture that feels too intimate for the monster who sliced open a man's palm tonight.

"Your mother's comment," he says as we walk toward the exit. "About my eyes. About them finding you."

"It was nothing," I reply quickly. "Just confusion. Her lucid moments are rare now, and even then, what she says rarely makes sense."

He studies me, clearly unconvinced. "She seemed very certain."

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