Murray wasn't much of a talker, but he answered her honestly.
"As far back as I can remember, I've been raised by the Whites."
Maeve blinked. "So you're a White?"
"No." Murray shook his head. "I'm an orphan. Same as Hans. We were taken in."
It was the first time Maeve had ever heard anything about Hans and Murray's past.
She only knew they were always at Andres's side, inseparable shadows. They never spoke about family.
She hadn't expected… this.
"Growing up in a house like that couldn't have been easy," Maeve said quietly.
The Whites had rules stacked on rules. A kid raised in that environment probably missed out on half the fun other children took for granted.
Murray hadn't expected casual conversation from Miss Vance of all people.
If it were anyone else, he'd keep his mouth shut. But with Maeve, he felt oddly… honored.
"There are a lot of rules," he admitted. "But Mr. Andres always looked out for us. Hans and I didn't suffer too much."
In another century, Murray and Hans would've been the lord's right-hand men—his guard and his attendant.
And if the master was decent, the people who served him lived well.
Andres, for those he trusted, never hesitated to share the best he had.
Hans was sharp, so Andres trained him into his executive assistant.
Murray was muscle, so he became the close-protection bodyguard.
They chatted off and on until sleepiness rolled back in.
Maeve propped her head on her hand and murmured, "I'm going to close my eyes. Wake me when we're there."
After that, Murray didn't say another word.
Maeve drifted off—and fell into a dream made of scattered, bloody fragments.
From a distant, godlike angle, she saw a person with a blurred face locked inside a dark room.
The scene snapped—
His fingernails were torn raw from the beds with rusty pliers. Blood and torn flesh hit the filthy floor.
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