It was the kind of mistake that left a sickening feeling inside of her. Dread—pure dread. Because once Tom decided something was his, he never let go, and there was nothing she wanted more. To be free. To go back in time and repair events that should never have occurred. Rectify them, obliterate them, make a future for herself in which darkness and suffering weren't the only constants.

But.

This wasn't fixable. And all she had left was time—time to count down, to monitor, to wile away until he came and collected her.

Snowflakes drifted gently down from the sky, a few colliding with the window and sliding down its frosted surface until they, too, disappeared into the blanc sol that covered the landscape. The fire crackled innocently in its hearth and Marilee turned her unseeing gaze upon it. A few strands of her elaborately coiffed hair fell into her face but she made no move to replace them. It wouldn't be long now.

So deep was she in her reverie that it wasn't until he stood directly behind her that she noticed his presence. Instinctively, she stiffened, wondering what retribution he would exact. For this, there was no precedence. There had never been a dark truth forcibly revealed between them. Of course, she hadn't meant to walk into the room that she had. Neither had she purposely stood there, pale and shaking, watching a horrific act that would never erase itself from her memory. It was as though fate had intervened, had made an executive decision that it was, indeed, time that she knew who he was and what he did those long nights he stayed away.

"Marilee," he greeted her, finally, his tone nothing but calm. But to say it was just that would be misdirection, for his voice was always something more than its cold, deep cadence first appeared to be. It was a thousand different things—whatever he needed it to be, whatever its listener desired it to be, if he were so gracious as to bestow upon them that gift. And he could, and he did. It was a matter of fact that Tom could talk nearly anybody into nearly anything.

On good days, when he spoke to her, it was like a velvety caress, something both reassuring and exciting. During their less positive moments, it became frozen and commanding, the cool grip of his authority making itself known in a way that often had her totally compliant. That was a rare time. But now, as he spoke her name, a shiver made its way down her spine. Anger. There was anger in his tone. And angry was something he had never been with her. Irritated, frustrated—plenty of times. But Tom's anger wasn't for her, never for her. Until now.

Marilee wasn't talkative by nature, and in fact suffered from flashbacks of her childhood stutter during times of great stress. She knew Tom loved the visible vulnerability that defect entailed. It was, of course, always a power play with him. Not a game in which she engaged regularly, but there were times that he couldn't help himself and she had to respond. In this moment, it would be a grievous misstep to fumble any words. The game hadn't just changed—it was unrecognizable, and Marilee didn't know what safe was anymore.

It was to her great shame, then, when she took that misstep.

"T-Tom."

Her eyes shut rather quickly; her hands clenched into fists. He took a step closer to her and fear announced itself in her chest with a painful twinge. There was no more fire, no more snowstorm, no more anything but him. As usual, Tom consumed whatever space he inhabited, his presence so powerful that whatever room he stepped into turned itself into a backdrop. Were there any other people in the room all their attention would now be upon him. That was just him. That was Tom.

"Marilee," he repeated, his tone much softer, making its way through her ears and into her bones.

She truly trembled now, a constant shaking that could not be willed away. In her mind she cried out to any deity that listened to save her, to whisk her away from the evil wizard behind her. Because she was not strong enough to walk away. It wouldn't take long to talk her down. She knew it. He knew it. But the question was, what she wasn't sure of, was did he still want her?

"I thought I told you," he started, now so close that he was on the precipice of touching her, "never to run from me."

Marilee gave no response because there was none. He made statements such as these when beginning what she called "rhetorical lectures," something meant to simultaneously provoke and subdue. Unfair, though true facts that he delicately manipulated into working toward his favor no matter the situation. He knew that anyone with a whit of common sense would have fled at the sight of a fellow classmate being tortured on the floor of a dark room full of robed, masked figures. But that wasn't the point—and there was a point.

Tom was in control. Best not to forget.

Her eyes opened, albeit slowly, when she felt him remove her wand from her hand. Just a quick pull and it slid out of her grasp to be safely hidden within his robes. A part of her scoffed at his pre-emptive action. Like she would ever be so out of control that she would dare duel him. Or even want to. What she wanted was for him to just disappear. Be gone. But perhaps that was her prerogative. To apparate to Bulgaria and pretend like none of their relationship had ever happened. Lock the doors, put away her magic, and never speak of it again.

"Turn around," he growled.

Marilee fought to not respond. But his gift of authority didn't come and go—it was as part of him as his nose and despite her slow speed, she turned. Her eyes dropped to the ground.

Typically, he lifted her chin and waited until she met his stare. And then he voiced one more command.

"Speak."