The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 735

Chapter 735 Sea Bargains 
“I think it’s yummy,” the little one shrugged, peering at the biscuit. “Back in Kandria, I ate things far nastier than this.” 
“Were things that hard in Kandria?” The old man studied the spare child–he remembered hearing she’d drifted overseas and only recently been reclaimed by the Whitethorn residence. 
As soon as he asked, the little one launched into memories of the orphanage: every dawn spent plotting her next meal, shielding her sick mother, fending off the sharper elbows of other children. 
Those bleak details should have weighed the room down, yet from her mouth bright and quick, like pebbles skipping over water. 
He pictured a blade of grass, bent flat by a storm, then springing upright the moment the wind passed. 
The old man kept his gaze on Dawn, half–believing he was looking at echoes of another woman. 
The longer he listened, however, the more those echoes unraveled; the child and that woman were nothing alike. 
At the very least, Dawn carried no scent of resignation. 
Even penned into hardship, she pushed outward–alive, stubborn, irrepressible. 
If that woman had worn the same stubbornness, perhaps she would have never chosen a rope and a ceiling beam. 
“What a waste,” the old man murmured. 
The little one blinked, confusion pricking her eyes; she had no idea what he mourned. 
He offered no explanation, only signaled for guards to escort Dawn back to the room where the children were kept. 
“Captain Bridger, what did you mean by ‘waste‘ just now?” a subordinate ventured once the girl was gone. 
“She’s a Whitethorn child, Joaquin Whitethorn’s granddaughter. Her blood seals her fate.” 
All the Whitethorn splendor she never tasted, yet the family’s sins would drown her. 
Such a quick, clever spark–snuffed before it could catch. 
***** 
The door banged open behind her. Verity shot up from the corner and rushed over, whisper- shouting, “Are you hurt? Did they hit you?” 
“No. They only took me to chat with the grandpa who stopped us yesterday,” Dawn said. 
“Chat?” Verity echoed, brow furrowing. 
“Yeah. Lucky for me, he gave this back.” Dawn eased the Rubik’s Cube from her pocket as though it were spun glass. 
She had half–feared Grandpa Lee would keep it forever. 
Verity tilted his head at the cube, confusion clouding his eyes; Dawn could almost hear the unspoken question–why did she treat the thing like treasure? 
“By the way, 
does your cheek still hurt?” Dawn asked. 
One side of Verity’s face was still swollen, the red imprint of yesterday’s slap spread like an ugly bruise. 
Even after a night’s rest, the puffiness hadn’t subsided. 
“It doesn’t,” Verity insisted. 
Dawn lifted a finger and poked the tender spot. 
Verity’s small face crumpled with sudden pain. 
“It does hurt,” Dawn muttered. “You promised you’d never lie to me again.” 
Verity dropped his gaze to his sneakers, every breath catching in his throat, and forced the word out in a whisper. ‘S–sorry. The syllable barely left his lips before heat crawled up his neck. 
Would Dawn push him away now? The thought scraped across his ribs, louder than her breathing beside him, and he could already feel the space between them widening into something permanent. 
He had lied only to keep the worry lines from forming between her brows, yet a lie was still a lie, sour and metallic on his tongue. 
Just as shame tightened around him, something soft and warm brushed his swollen cheek–a weightless, steady pressure that stole his breath. 
It took a full heartbeat before the shape of the sensation clicked: she was kissing him. 
Her lips landed exactly where the bruise throbbed, gentle but certain, as if she could coax the pain out through her own warmth. 
“Auntie Megan says a kiss makes the ache fade,” she declared, chin lifted with shy pride. “She loves it when I do this.” 
Verity stared at her, mind blank, body rooted, the world narrowed to the warmth still humming on his cheek. 
“Does it feel any better now?” she asked, wide–eyed, waiting as though his ans more than the sky. 
“Maybe… a little,” he managed, the words clumsy but honest. 
tered 
She squealed, pulled his head to her shoulder, and peppered his sore cheek with tiny, rapid pecks, like a sparrow testing scattered seeds. 
Heat flooded his face, nerves sparking, yet each kiss left a strange relief in its wake, as though the pain obeyed her softness. 
Then an image cut through the sweetness: her, bound her there because of what his parents had done. 
and terrified, and the men who wanted 
Cold panic chased the warmth away; if she hated him, the space between them would freeze over for good. 
She felt the tremor that ran through him and pulled back just enough to search his face. “What’s wrong?” 
His throat tightened. “Suppose… one day you find out my mom and dad are terrible people. Will you still want to be my friend?” 
She looked at him, head tilted. “I’m friends with you. Your parents‘ choices aren’t not a bad person.” 
you. You’re 
Her words landed in the void left by every insult the Lu family had ever thrown at him— worthless, shameless, destined for filth–and for a second he couldn’t breathe. 
She’d drawn a clean line he’d never dared imagine: they were his parents‘ sins, not his. 
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll change? That I could hurt you someday?” he whispered. 
She squeezed his hands. “You haven’t. You’re always finding ways to shield me. The name swap? You did that because the people after me wanted ‘Miss Whitethorn, right?” 
His shoulders sagged. “I tried, but it didn’t work. They know you’re Miss Whitethorn now.”