Chapter 43: The hunt begins

The sharp rap of knuckles on wood echoed through the house, sending a chill down Matilda's spine. She took a deep breath, smoothing her features into a mask of cool indifference before reaching for the door handle.As the door swung open, Lord Blackthorn's imposing figure filled the frame. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, his piercing eyes fixed upon her with an intensity that threatened to shatter her composure.

"Wife," he said, the word dripping with a mixture of authority and disdain.

Matilda inclined her head slightly, her voice steady as she replied, "Lord Blackthorn. To what do I owe this... unexpected visit?"

Blackthorn's gaze swept over her, then past her into the house. "I find myself curious, my dear, as to why you've chosen to abandon our palatial mansion for this... crude kiosk."

'Stay calm,' Matilda thought, her heart racing despite her outward stillness. 'Give nothing away.'

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission to seek a change of scenery," she responded, her tone dismissive. "If that's all you've come to inquire about, you needn't have troubled yourself with the journey."

A ghost of a smile played on Blackthorn's lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, finding you was quite the challenge, I must admit. You chose your hideaway with admirable discretion." He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "But you forget, my dear, I have eyes everywhere. It was only a matter of time before whispers of my wife's new haunts reached my ears."

Without waiting for an invitation, Blackthorn stepped past her into the house. Matilda's fingers tightened on the door handle, her only outward sign of distress.

'Zafron,' she thought desperately. 'Please, let him have gotten away.'

Blackthorn moved through the modest living area with the air of a king surveying a pauper's hovel. His fingertips trailed along a simple wooden table, his lip curling slightly.

"How... quaint," he murmured, his tone making it clear it was anything but a compliment.

Matilda followed him, keeping a careful distance. "I find it suits my needs perfectly," she said, her chin lifted defiantly.

Blackthorn turned to her, one eyebrow raised. "And what needs might those be, I wonder? What could this hovel provide that our home does not?"

'Peace,' Matilda thought. 'Freedom. The chance to be myself.' But aloud, she merely said, "Sometimes, one simply needs a change of pace."

"Indeed," Blackthorn replied, his tone skeptical. He moved towards the kitchen, his keen gaze taking in every detail. "And does this 'change of pace' typically involve entertaining... guests?"

Matilda's heart skipped a beat, but she kept her face impassive. "I wasn't aware I needed your permission for that either."

Blackthorn's eyes narrowed slightly. "Come now, Matilda. We both know you're far too refined to truly enjoy such... rustic accommodations. There must be some other draw."

He turned suddenly, moving towards the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Matilda's pulse quickened, but she forced herself to remain still.

'He's gone,' she reminded herself. 'Zafron's safe. There's nothing to find.'

"Your concern for my social calendar is touching," Matilda said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I assure you, I'm perfectly capable of managing my own affairs."

Blackthorn paused at the entrance to the hallway, turning back to her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, I have no doubt of that, my dear. You've always been... resourceful."

He took a step down the hallway, then another. Matilda's nails dug into her palms as she fought to maintain her composure.

"Is there a particular reason you're so interested in my sleeping arrangements?" she asked, hoping to divert his attention.

Blackthorn chuckled, a sound devoid of any real mirth. "Merely ensuring my wife is... comfortable." He pushed open the door to her bedroom, his eyes scanning the interior before moving on.

As he approached Zafron's room, Matilda's heart threatened to burst from her chest. 'Please,' she silently prayed. 'Please let there be no sign of him.'

Blackthorn pushed the door open, stepping inside. Matilda held her breath, counting the seconds as he surveyed the room.

After what felt like an eternity, he emerged, his face unreadable. "Well," he said, his tone deceptively light, "it seems you've made quite the cozy nest for yourself here."

Matilda met his gaze steadily. "As I said, it suits my needs."

Blackthorn moved back towards her, each step measured and deliberate. "And what of your duties, Matilda? Your responsibilities as Lady Blackthorn? Have you forgotten them so easily?"

'I never wanted them in the first place,' she thought bitterly. But she kept her voice level as she replied, "I was unaware my duties required constant confinement to the mansion."

He was close now, too close. Matilda could smell the expensive cologne that clung to his immaculate suit, could see the faint lines of displeasure around his mouth.

"Your duties," he said softly, dangerously, "are whatever I say they are. Or have you forgotten the terms of our arrangement?"

Matilda felt a flicker of the old fear, but she pushed it down. "I forget nothing, Lord Blackthorn. But perhaps you've forgotten that I'm not one of your simpering sycophants, content to be ordered about at your whim."

For a moment, something like admiration flashed in Blackthorn's eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by cold calculation.

"Very well," he said, stepping back. "Enjoy your... retreat, my dear. But do not forget who you are, or to whom you belong."

He moved towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "Oh, and Matilda?" He turned, his smile razor-sharp. "Do give my regards to your... friend. I'm sure we'll all have a delightful conversation very soon."

With that, he was gone, leaving Matilda standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet house. As the sound of the cart faded into the distance, she sank to her knees, her carefully maintained composure finally crumbling.

'He knows,' she thought, terror and relief warring within her. 'He knows, but Zafron is safe. For now.'

As Lord Blackthorn stepped out of the house, the crisp night air did little to cool his simmering thoughts. He strode purposefully towards the waiting cart, where Gustavo, his imposing guard, stood at attention.

Gustavo's scarred face remained impassive as Blackthorn approached, but his eyes gleamed with a dangerous intelligence. He opened the cart door without a word, awaiting his master's instructions.

Blackthorn paused before entering, his voice low and controlled. "The boy is gone, Gustavo, but he can't have gotten far." His eyes, cold as steel, met those of his loyal guard. "Find him and... silence him. Permanently."

Gustavo nodded once, a sharp, efficient movement that spoke volumes. No further explanation was needed; he understood the gravity and implications of the order perfectly.

As the cart began to move, the rhythmic clop of horses' hooves punctuating the night's silence, Blackthorn settled into his seat. His face betrayed no emotion, but his mind whirred with calculated plans and potential consequences.

They traveled in tense silence for several minutes, putting a reasonable distance between themselves and Matilda's house. Finally, Blackthorn raised a hand, signaling the driver to stop.

Gustavo disembarked without a word, his movements fluid and predatory. He scanned the surroundings, his trained eyes picking up details others might miss. The moonlight cast long shadows, perfect for concealment - both for the hunter and the hunted.

As Gustavo melted into the darkness, Blackthorn watched from the cart window. A faint smile played on his lips, devoid of any warmth or humor.

"Proceed," he instructed the driver, settling back into his seat as the cart resumed its journey.

Left behind, Gustavo stood motionless for a moment, allowing his senses to attune to the night. His eyes narrowed, filled with a cold, determined malice. The order had been given, and Gustavo lived to execute orders.

With silent, purposeful strides, he began his hunt. The night stretched before him, full of possibilities - and somewhere out there, an unsuspecting target awaited his deadly attention, Zafron.

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