The Sinner of Mute

The park was a mosaic of decay and defiance crumbling stone benches, oak trees clawing at the gray sky, their leaves rusted with autumn.

Lucien walked a half-step ahead, his black wool coat cutting through the chill, Sorina's hand trapped in his.

Behind them, two guards lingered, their presence muted by the crunch of dead leaves.

Sorina's free hand drifted to her stomach, hidden beneath a cashmere shawl the color of dried roses.

She'd grown adept at reading the tension in Lucien's grip, the way his thumb absently stroked her knuckle when his thoughts spiraled.

Today, his touch was a vise.

He stopped abruptly at a wrought-iron gazebo, its paint flaking like old scars. "Sit."

She obeyed, the bench cold through her wool skirt.

He remained standing, his gaze tracking a pair of sparrows fighting over a crust of bread.

The wind tugged at his hair, unruly for once, and for a fleeting moment, he looked like the boy in the photograph all sharp edges and storm-cloud eyes.

"Your father " she signed, then hesitated. She just wanted to ask why did his father call him ?

"Don't." The warning was soft, lethal.

She pressed her lips together, the words dissolving.

Above them, the sparrows scattered, startled by the bark of a distant dog.

Lucien sat beside her, his thigh brushing hers.

From his coat pocket, he withdrew a velvet pouch Turkish apricots, their skins dusted with sugar.

He placed one in her palm, his fingers lingering. "Eat."

The fruit was tart, the sweetness cloying.

She offered him the next one, her palm upturned.

He stared at it, then took it slowly, his teeth sinking into the flesh.

A drop of juice trailed his thumb, and he wiped it on his handkerchief, the gesture fastidious, rehearsed.

They sat in silence, the distance between them charged, fragile.

A child's laughter echoed from the playground, and Sorina tensed, her hand instinctively curling over her abdomen.

Lucien's gaze followed the movement, his jaw tightening.

"Lets Walk...it's good for you and baby's health," he said abruptly, rising.

They followed a path lined with skeletal hydrangeas, their blooms long dead.

Lucien's pace slowed, his grip on her hand easing.

At the pond's edge, he paused, watching a lone swan glide across the murky water.

Sorina studied his profile the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint scar splitting his left eyebrow.

"Your mother planted hydrangeas," she signed, the words tentative.

He stilled.

For a heartbeat, she thought he'd strike her. Then his shoulders sagged, barely perceptible.

"Blue ones," he said, his voice rough. "She said they matched the sea."

The swan dipped its neck, rippling the water. Lucien's thumb brushed her wrist, a whisper of contact. "Enough for today. Time to go home."

They walked back to the car, the guards trailing like ghosts.

As he helped her into the Bentley, his hand lingered at the small of her back a claim, a concession.

That night, Sorina found the shackle in the trash, its platinum chain glinting among coffee grounds and torn envelopes.

She left it there, untouched.