Threads Of Fate (Being Revamped)

Unspoken

The study at Attenborough Manor brooded in a soft gloom, the late afternoon sun held at bay by thick velvet curtains. Distant dust motes drifted through narrow columns of light that managed to escape, glinting above aged leather spines and the steady tick of a clock on the mantel, marking time with anxious patience.

Anthony drifted down into the welcoming confines of a plush armchair at the room's center, his long frame eased into the leather with practiced comfort. Across from him, Edward paced like a caged animal, shoes barely making a sound on the crimson rug. His expression was tight, worry dragooned into every furrow of his brow. The silence between them stretched—fractured only by footsteps and the quiet protest of Anthony's groan.

"Edward, for the love of God, you're making me dizzy. Do sit down before you wear out the rug," Anthony said, feigning exasperation, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

Edward wheeled to face him, his look thunderous. "Anthony, this isn't—all this isn't a game. Mara—Zenith—she isn't to be trusted. I truly don't know how she managed to make me agree to any of this." His hands moved in short, helpless gestures, fingers knotting and unknotting.

A smirk ghosted over Anthony's lips. He knew exactly how Zenith could make men agree to her terms—she could talk the moon from the sky, if ever she wished. But Edward? Convincing Edward was something else entirely. All the same, Anthony felt an uncharitable relief that it had been Zenith, not Edward himself, who'd found him and Anya in that moment upstairs.

Still, he could have sworn he'd locked the door before—he blinked, forcing away the memory, determined to keep equal footing in this discussion. "Edward, truly—there are matters women must sort out for themselves. You hovering over Anya like a nervous hen won't help. Try to be more...open-minded."

"Open-minded?" Edward echoed, sagging as though the words had weight. "Since when have I not been? I've tried to give her everything—what was left of it. Made sure the roof didn't leak and that she had enough to eat, even as our accounts bled dry. I've done what I can, Anthony. How much more should a man give?" His hand went to his brow, shielding bleak eyes.

Anthony fixed him with a look, one brow arching in challenge. "You coddle her, Ed, more than you realize. You've wrapped the truth around her like cotton—hiding the state of things, deciding for her what she ought to know. The world is bigger than all these ancient rules and stone walls. Let her be part of it."

Edward's jaw tensed; for a brief moment, Anthony saw the stubborn boy beneath the responsibility. "No," Edward snapped, his voice ringing against the bookshelves. "No—I can't. The last thing our parents asked was that I take care of her. That I find her a good match, see her...safe. To ask her for help, to let her see how close the wolves truly are—that would be betraying their trust."

Anthony's tone softened. "She was a child then, Edward. Just a little girl. Now she's a grown woman—you'd see it, if you'd let her."

The old tension in Edward's stance began to leak away; he stopped pacing, then dropped heavily into the chair beside Anthony. A sad, rueful smile flickered on his lips. "You were too young to remember, but our parents—they used to joke about you and Anya. I think it started after they caught you in the garden, pulling her pigtails and making her shriek. They thought you two would grow up together, perhaps—" He hesitated, lost in memory.

Color mounted in Anthony's cheeks. "You're joking."

"I'm not," Edward chuckled, the sound edged with fatigue. "The night of the solstice ball, I'd meant to find you, speak to you about a proposal. Perhaps I should've spoken with Anya first—the world's changed, hasn't it? But you and she—" He shook his head, conceding a private defeat. "When I saw you together, I thought, perhaps, things might simply fall into place."