Page 6 of Iron Roses

He doesn’t pull away.

Just stares at me—eyes colder than the wind outside. And then he says it:

“It should have been you who died.”

The journal slips in my hand, almost falling. I grip it hard.

His gaze doesn’t waver. No malice. No cruelty. Just… finality.

I want to scream. To throw it back at him. But I don’t.

I nod. Once. My throat stings, but I force it down.

“May I go?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

I turn away before he sees the tears that refuse to fall.

I don’t make it three steps down the hallway before the sting behind my eyes finally breaks. The first tear slips down, hot against skin that’s already gone cold. I wipe it away with the back of my sleeve. Hard. Like I can scrub his voice out of my memory.

It should have been you who died.

My legs move on instinct, but the hallway feels longer than usual. The house is colder. The kind of cold that comes from inside the walls, not outside them.

My palm presses against the railing as I start to descend the stairs.

Halfway down, I stop.

Something’s… off.

The house is never this quiet.

No footsteps. No distant clatter of dishes. No murmured conversations from the kitchens or the staff’s wing.

Nothing.

I turn. Glance behind me.

No one at the top of the stairs. No guards stationed at the landing.

My spine stiffens. My breath hitches.

Then I hear it.

A creak.

Close. Floorboards that shouldn't shift unless someone heavy is moving across them.

I pivot toward the sound, heart pounding now, throat tightening. Another step forward—

Pop.

A muffled bang, like a car backfiring. But not outside.

Inside.

Then a window shatters.

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