Chapter 3: Survival, Hunger, and a New Protector

But one night, someone crept into my room. I woke up, heart pounding.

The floorboards creaked, and I jolted upright, heart pounding. Moonlight spilled through the cracked window, illuminating a shadowy figure at the foot of my bed.

I was about to scream when a hand clamped over my mouth.

His grip was rough, desperate. Panic surged in my chest.

“Ma’am, don’t scream! I brought you money. You’re hungry, right?”

I recognized the voice—it was the man I’d asked to pawn my jewelry.

His breath smelled of whiskey and fear. I realized then just how vulnerable I was, alone in that forgotten place.

I knew what he wanted. But I wasn’t afraid to die. No way I’d let myself be humiliated.

I pulled out my hairpin, aimed for his eye. My hand didn’t shake.

Too bad. I was broke. The hairpin was just wood.

It snapped in my hand, useless. He laughed, low and mean.

He slapped me so hard my head spun and my ears rang.

Pain exploded across my cheek. I tasted blood and rage.

I stared at his shadow, gathering all my strength to let out a piercing scream.

I drew in a breath and screamed, louder than I thought possible. The sound echoed through the halls, waking the dead—or so I hoped.

Marcus was on night patrol. He rushed in and saved me.

He burst through the door, flashlight in hand, eyes blazing. He didn’t hesitate, just tackled the man to the ground and dragged him out into the night.

I clung to the wall, barely standing. “Thank you,” I whispered.

My voice was barely above a whisper, but Marcus heard me. He glanced back, making sure I was safe before turning his attention to the mess left behind.

He saw I wasn’t going to cry. Or complain. So he stayed.

He lingered in the doorway, uncertain. I could see the worry etched on his face, the way his jaw clenched as he tried to figure out what to do next.

He looked around the bare room, then took a packet of biscuits from his coat and set it on the table.

The crinkling sound of the wrapper was oddly comforting, a reminder of simpler times. He placed them gently, as if afraid they might break.

“Want something to eat?”

His voice was gentle, coaxing. I could tell he was trying to help, even if he didn’t know how.

I reached for them, then stopped. “No,” I said. “I’m going to die.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. I meant them, or at least I thought I did.

Marcus just chuckled.

It was a warm, low sound, almost teasing. For a moment, it made the room feel less cold.

“We’re deep in the hills, cut off from the world. With your looks, Autumn, nobody’s going to care if you die out here.”

He said it with a crooked smile, trying to lighten the mood. But the truth of it stung.

His words scared me. I grabbed the biscuits, stuffed them in my mouth.

I tore open the packet, crumbs spilling onto the floor. The biscuits were stale, but I ate them anyway, desperate for something to hold onto.

I looked at myself. Still looked good. No way was I dying now.

I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror—cheek swollen, eyes wild, but still alive. Maybe that was enough.

I’d live. Even if nobody wanted me—not even my corpse.

It became a stubborn promise to myself. If the world wanted to forget me, I’d make sure I was impossible to ignore.

Marcus studied me seriously and said, “That might take until you’re ninety-nine.”

He grinned, and for the first time in a long while, I almost smiled back.

I was overwhelmed. Happy I was still beautiful. Sad I’d have to live that long.

A strange mix of pride and despair tangled inside me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But I was grateful for Marcus. He taught me everything—how to grow vegetables, catch chickens, wash clothes, cook. How to survive.

He was patient when I burned the cornbread, gentle when I forgot to feed the chickens, always quick with a joke or a story from his own hard childhood. He made the days less lonely.

He even went to the man who’d pawned my things and got back the money he’d stolen from me.

I never asked how he did it, and he never told me. But the money was there, tucked safely in an old coffee tin under my bed.

He was good to me. Truly.

Better than I deserved, I often thought. He never asked for anything in return.

But I’d never thought about marrying again.

The idea seemed impossible—like reaching for the moon. My heart was still buried in that empty coffin.

Marcus knew my heart belonged to Sebastian and never pushed his own feelings.

He respected my boundaries, never crossing a line. Sometimes, though, I’d catch him looking at me with a tenderness that made my chest ache.