Page 7 of Severe Husband Warning

Lord Malakor advances through the market beneath a deep indigo cloak embroidered with silver thread. His skin catches the shifting stormlight, lending sharp definition to the elegant sweep of his horns and the calculating calm settled across his features. Two guards follow half a pace behind, their polished armor reflecting enough light to announce their station long before anyone notices the weapons at their sides.

I bow before his attention is fully upon me.

“My lord.”

“Miss Alder.” His gaze drops briefly to the basket before returning to me. “I understand my steward has already discussed your family’s account.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then you understand the position in which you’ve placed yourself.”

“I only ask for a little more time.”

The smallest turn of his hand dismisses the request before it has the chance to become a plea.

“Debts are not settled by sentiment, human,” he says, his tone remaining almost conversational. “Nor are they paid in song.”

Heat creeps beneath my collar, but I keep my gaze fixed on the floor.

“I understand.”

“Tithe season is rarely patient,” he says. “Collectors become increasingly practical as the deadlines approach.”

The words take root in me, cold and absolute.

“I intend to repay every daler,” I say carefully.

“I have no doubt you intend to,” he replies, tone slightly sharper. He steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of expensive incense clinging to his robes. “The difficulty is that intention carries very little value once accounts are due.”

My fingers tighten around the basket handle.

His eyes drift toward the road leading back to our quarter, telling me the destination itself has already been entered into one of his ledgers.

“I understand your father was once a remarkably strong laborer.”

The world seems to narrow around those words. Father’s cough echoes through my thoughts with painful clarity.

Lord Malakor already knows exactly where my family’s value lies.

He tilts his head with effortless courtesy before continuing on his way, his guards falling into step behind him.

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until the knot in my chest loosens enough for air to return.

“Calla.”

Cora reaches across the stall and squeezes my wrist.

I look down at the basket. The loaf, the turnips, and the onion she’d slipped inside feel impossibly light.

“I’ll find a way,” I say quietly.

Whether the promise is meant for her or for myself, I honestly couldn’t say.

She gives my wrist one last reassuring squeeze before turning back to the waiting customers, understanding there is nothing else she can offer me.

I thank her, gather the basket against my hip, and begin the walk home.

The market carries on around me as if nothing happened. Lord Malakor’s words follow me through every street.