Chapter Text
Sloane
There are many reasons why Lady Trent likely rues the day I became her ward. I would argue—with passable application of the elocution she instilled upon me—that most of those reasons are not my fault.
Case in point: it’s hardly my fault that my left arm sports a rebellion relic so stark against my skin that dressing me for polite society has become an exercise in creative costuming, nor should I be held accountable for the fact that the heavy waves of my hair have yet to meet a hairpin able to subjugate them. Moreover—despite what my matron would tell you—I am not to blame for the day Baron van Mount’s second footman became so handsy while lifting me into my carriage that I had no choice but to whack him in the crotch with my reticule (nor am I culpable for the Baron himself being so shitty at cards that said reticule was, at the time of the thwarted groping, heavily weighted with my winnings).
Above all, I can’t help that Lady Trent wanted to foster an idealized version of me (namely, the mild-mannered daughter of the Earl of Beathane), and was instead saddled with my reality (a half-feral, fully traumatized wisp of a girl who grew into her legs but not her propriety).
Clearly, none of those things are my fault.
It is, however, possibly my fault that tonight, on the illustrious eve of my wedding, I am absconding out my bedroom window.
“You know,” Eris, my maid, tilts her head as I tie two more of my bedsheets together with a savagely-strung knot. “Upon reflection, I’m not certain this is wise.”
I hand her one end of my makeshift rope and she gives a dutiful test yank. The binding holds fast. Thank Amari I’m Tyrrish; this knot needs to see me safely down to the azalea bushes. The last thing I need is to show up to tomorrow’s handfasting with my face bashed in from a two-story fall.
My fiancé has been promised a lady, after all.
No harm in letting him think he’s getting one.
“We are past the point of wisdom, Eris.” I haul the sheets over to the beveled glass windowpane, easing open the shutter to peer down to the rear courtyard of the Trent estate. “The ceremony is tomorrow. After that, any and all opportunities for my sexual awakening will be rolled up and stuffed away in a marriage contract.”
“Well, yes.” She wrinkles her nose but notably does not argue. “But that doesn’t mean you have to—”
“And I won’t have an affair," I go on, stalking back to my vanity for my hairbrush. “Too messy. I don’t want to juggle one man, let alone two.”
Eris takes the hairbrush and gets to work on the most stubborn tangles. My hair, unpinned, falls below my shoulder blades. I can’t tell if it makes me look older or younger than my twenty-three years.
“Even still, m’lady. I don’t know if a...” She pauses, lowering her voice and looking around as if my armoire might reveal itself to be a covert operative, “tavern liaison is the most prudent course. What if you meet a man who—”
“Takes advantage?” I wryly lift one slender brow. “It’s almost as if that’s the point.”
Eris finishes with my hair and stands back. I twist and turn in front of the mirror, giving myself a critical once-over. Instinctively, I arch my neck and raise my chin, hearing Lady Trent’s reprimand in my ear: perfect posture posits perfection. For a second I hold it, remembering my much-younger reflection, the way I practiced, over and over, already understanding that in her eyes, perfect was only a premise, a suggestion, a thing I would never be.
And then I force my frozen reflection to relax. When I’m married, at least I’ll be the lady of the house, and damn if that doesn’t feel like a hard-won consolation prize.
I glance down, adjusting my belt pouch. Eris has obligingly switched attire with me, which means she’s currently wearing my satin dressing gown and I’m laced into her leather bodice. And I mean laced—though blessed with curves I was not, Eris has somehow managed to strap me in so that my breasts are on disingenuous display. I lean forward, studying my face, and smudge a little more kohl along my lashline. The whole effect—the loose waves, the cosmetics, my second-best riding boots—is transformative. It’s also probably unnecessary. It’s not as though I’ve been given ample opportunity to traipse around the village after dark; the patrons at the Broken Talon likely wouldn’t recognize me even if I walked in with my relic exposed and my family crest tattooed across my now-apparent tits.
But still.
I’m playing a part tonight, and for the sake of my nerves I need to at least look like it.
I turn to Eris, who is appraising me in the manner of a long-suffering conspirator. I grin at her stalwart loyalty; while I sneak out to the tavern, my maid will be here, lounging among my pillows and deflecting any knocks from Lady Trent or the Tyrrish contingent by shouting that I’ve taken to bed with a cool compress. Besides, she’s as transparent as glass: Eris wants a night of comfort in my bed as much as I want a night of debauchery in someone else’s.
Anyone else’s.
As long as he’s my choice.
“What do you think?” I tilt my head. “Do I look like a woman who is about to be deflowered?”
She purses her lips consideringly, then abruptly tugs my bodice lower. I yelp, glancing down to make sure I’m still on the tasteful side of harlot.
“For Amari’s sake, Eris! Any lower and my potential paramour will discern this corset is doing the goddess’s work.”
She tuts and dabs perfume on my throat. “That corset isn’t going anywhere, believe you me. And, for the record, you are a highborn debutante. You aren’t supposed to have a paramour.”
I smirk. “Who’s record? The Inter-Continental Registry of Virginal Brides?”
She folds her arms as I snatch up the forest-green cloak I wore to the Equinox masquerade. To Lady Trent’s horror, I had dressed as a pirate’s captive. It’s really too bad that the only part of my costume I could locate tonight was the cloak; that bodice would have made efficient work of my tavern excursion.
I fasten my cloak and turn around to find Eris has not yet abandoned her last-minute battle for my virtue.
“But your husband—”
“—is not here. And even if he were, he’s not my husband yet. You know, I haven’t even met the man, so I don’t see how I owe him anything. And I certainly don’t owe him the very last thing I have agency over.”
Eris sighs. “Lady Sloane...”
“We’ve been over this, dearest.” I kiss her forehead, then rub off the faint smudge left by the red stain on my lips. “If I’m about to spend the next four months laying beneath the paunch of some heaving—” I break off, waving my hand in a vague acknowledgement of what I assume will be waiting for me at the other end of the aisle, “—warlord, I’m at least having one night of fun before I put his accursed ring on my finger.”
Here, Eris has the gall to tut.
“Lord Durran and Major Cardulo hardly described him as a warlord. Nor, I expect, will he have a heaving paunch.” She plops down at the foot of my bed; apparently the primping portion of my debauchment has reached its conclusion. “Colonel Aetos is a decorated veteran. And he’s...what? Twenty-six?”
She’s correct on both counts. And both counts, are, unfortunately, pretty much the sum of what I know of my fiancé. After Lady Trent received the betrothal notice from Aretia, waving it about like it was her saving grace, I had even checked the Calldyr Compendium, hoping the nobility registry would reveal some sort of useful intel.
But no. They didn’t even find me a proper aristocrat. Colonel Aetos was gifted his land.
A farmstead.
In Elsum.
There is no way to combine any of those words into a sentence I want to be associated with.
I side-eye Eris. “Whatever else he may be, he’s also willingly subjecting himself to an arranged marriage. Men don’t do this for themselves. Clearly, there is something wrong with him. He’s either maimed, a monster, or a martyr.”
Eris bites her bottom lip, and I know that despite her strong front, she shares my reservations.
“The Duke and Duchess selected him,” she reminds me, after a beat. “You have to remember that.”
I hum noncommittally, because she’s once again right. Xaden and his wife—Violet, a lovely, fierce little sprite I’ve met on two occasions that confirmed she’s exactly the sort of person who would save the whole damn Continent—recommended this betrothal, and surely they would not tarnish their sterling legacy by handfasting me to a brute. I know this logically, and also anecdotally: Bodhi and Imogen had gone to great lengths to reassure me of this very point yesterday, when they arrived as delegates of the Tyrrish contingent. They had knocked on my door in their crisp uniforms, cautiously stepping into my space, warily observing as Eris and I packed up my trousseau. Without fanfare, they had tried to explain, their words falling fast as they painstakingly painted a picture only they could see.
“Aetos is upstanding,” Bodhi had muttered, compulsively raking back his dark hair. “He’s decent. A good egg who’s had a bad turn.”
“How reassuring,” I’d quipped dryly, methodically wrapping my heirloom jewelry for my valise. Topaz, emerald, sapphire. It never failed to sting, how they’d burned my parents but saved my jewels. “I’m glad I’ve been pledged to questionable breakfast food.”
“We fought alongside him, Sloane,” Bodhi argued, his brows lowered in sincerity. “Time and time again. Xaden put Aetos forward for a reason. He’s the best you could hope for, given the situation.”
Imogen, for her part, had paced my quarters like a caged panther plagued by the scent of the faraway outside. I watched her prowl, trying not to feel hurt by how small she found my space.
“Bodhi’s right.” Imogen said hoarsely, pulling up beside me. Her green eyes blazed as she squeezed my hand. “Dain is…” She trailed off, apparently unwilling to explain what Dain is, leaving me reliant on the egg analogy. “Let’s just say he’ll leave you alone. You only have to make it a few months; it's the shortest handfasting Xaden could wrangle.”
And then, both of them, again and in earnest: “You just have to trust us.”
And the thing is…I do want to trust them.
Gods, do I want to.
And why shouldn’t I? A question I asked myself, over and over yesterday, even after they left my chambers, even as I packed trunks filled with silk slips and lace gowns and my best pair of riding boots (the spare, of course, being requisitioned for tonight’s subterfuge). Why shouldn’t I trust them?
Liam certainly trusted them. My parents trusted their parents. I care for them—and I know they care for me—in the general, familial way you always care for the people you loved when you were small. But I haven’t seen the marked riders more than a handful of times over the last ten years. Those who crossed the Parapet…well, it’s no exaggeration to say that my life is completely different from theirs. Even if they think they know what’s good for me, how could they, when they don’t know me? Not as a whole person, my own person, a person who is trying to make a life in the space life allotted her.
I don’t blame them—but they weren’t here. Not Bodhi, not Imogen, not Garrick or Xaden. Not even Liam, by the end. They were off doing their part to secure the Continent, to protect futures like mine.
And in my own way, I have a duty to do the same.
I grasp the edge of my vanity and count off a slow breath. I try to put myself in a calm headspace, like when I’m riding Jadis, when her mane is whipping my face and I’m starving for wind—but it’s not enough. Even on horseback, I’ll never be fast enough to outrun what’s expected of me. I was spared Basgiath for this. Myself, and every other other noble daughter of the rebellion. We lost our estates, our families, everything but our dowries and courtesy titles. We were saved, so we could marry well.
And now providence has come to collect: the Isles made it clear they will not ratify necessary trade alliances with the newly unified Continent without proof we’ve rebuilt into something stable. And so the esteemed heads of state got together and determined that said stability would be demonstrated via a slate of arranged marriages between the aristocratic and military leaders of Tyrrendor, Navarre, and Poromiel.
It’s been happening for months now. First was King Aaric himself, handfast to Poromiel’s Princess Catriona. Since then, a steady trickle of heiresses, earls, and officers. All to strengthen ties and ease the growing pains of reunification.
And tomorrow, it’s my turn.
Eris is watching me carefully, so I slap a smile across my face.
“I’m sure Bodhi and Imogen are right,” I say, tossing my long hair over my shoulder. “Xaden wouldn’t permit a poor match to move forward.” I pause, making sure my words are convincing. “Colonel Aetos will suit.”
Eris doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she wants to. I brighten my smile, warding away further concern. I don’t need anyone’s platitudes, and I certainly don’t want their pity. After all, the irony is not lost on me that a contractual marriage will grant me more authority than I could ever achieve as an unwed ward.
But I do very much want to be my own woman at least once before I become a stranger’s wife.
“Right then.” I check my belt pouch one more time—coins, a pocketknife, the capsules containing the fertility suppressant. It’s truly depressing that I’ve never before had occasion to carry any of these items myself. In a rush of anxiety, I double check the coins, suddenly worried I’ll lose my head and forget how to make change for the barkeep. “I suppose…I’m off.”
Eris crosses to me, her blue eyes bright. “Be careful. Be safe. Jonah is waiting for you at the back gate—he’ll see you to the tavern, and wait for you as long as you need. If you, ah…decide to stay late, you can send word back with him.”
Ah, yes. Jonah: Lord Trent’s stableboy, Eris’s younger brother, and the last bastion of my propriety.
“Thank you for arranging all this.” I wind my arms tight around her. “I need this. I know it sounds like the height of stupidity, but..."
“I know.” She swallows hard, and I know she does know. “Sloane.”
The fact that Eris willingly dropped the honorifics is testament to the emotional gravity of this situation. For the love of Amari. We need to pull ourselves together.
“None of that.” I squeeze her shoulders and pointedly cock my eyebrow. “Let’s not be maudlin. It’s intercourse, not a funeral.”
“That should be your opening line,” Eris teases, correctly understanding we are lightening the mood. She reaches into the pocket of her borrowed robe and slyly withdraws a folded piece of paper. “Do you need anything else? Perhaps another peek at the laundress’s sketch?”
I gasp, plucking the drawing away from her. “You’re terrible.” I pause, considering. “But not as terrible as this diagram.”
Ever since my betrothal was announced, the serving girls, astutely predicting that Lady Trent would be less than no help in preparing me for the marriage bed, have become remarkably forthcoming in the advice department. Their concern is sweet, though largely unwarranted; at the age of fifteen, I set about educating myself using the best tools available to a red-blooded blueblood (specifically, a stack of smuggled erotica and my own determined hand). By volume four of The Regent’s Borrowed Bride I had a pretty good handle on the mechanics. Besides, in her efforts to remove me from her proximity, Lady Trent permitted me to study with the village healer, so what I didn’t glean from smut I learned from the medicinal arts. On the whole, I thought I was pretty well-versed in what awaits me.
Or so I thought, until the laundress contributed a sketch so alarming it caused even Sarabeth, the pastry chef, to blush.
And Sarabeth, mind you, is the mother of five.
Eris tilts her head, rotating the drawing in my hands. “Do you suppose we’re looking at it upside down?”
I squint, considering the logistics, then wave my hand. Enough dithering. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it. It is, quite literally, now or never.
“I don’t need a drawing,” I declare, marching over to the open shutters. “Just a man who knows what he’s doing and is willing to keep his mouth shut.”
“From your mouth to Loial’s ears,” Eris mutters.
“Pray in earnest or not at all,” I call gamely as I hoist the coiled bedsheets out the window. The pale rope unfurls along the masonry, stopping just short of the blooming azaleas.
For a moment, I watch it dangle, wondering if this is a bad idea.
And then I take a breath, grasp the sheets, and brace one boot in the window frame. I glance over my shoulder at Eris’s watchful face.
“But just to be safe...pray in earnest, would you?”
If Jonah the stableboy finds depositing Lady Trent’s chaotic ward at the rear entrance of the village inn-turned-tavern to be a strange chore, he does not comment. He does, however, gladly accept the coins I press into his hand.
“Wait here. I’ll signal if I’m all...set.” I will myself not to blush, but Jonah isn’t looking at me at all. He’s too busy rubbing his coins together with the savage glee of a teenage boy who is absolutely going to buy beer.
I wonder—briefly, insanely—if I’ve inadvertently just turned Jonah into a deviant.
Putting a pin in that concern for now, I swivel to face the tavern and carefully lower my hood. The hour is late, but the night is mild; here, in the northernmost region of Tyrrendor, spring comes early and stays late. The air is humid in a way that forecasts rain, and I feel a dull pang of disappointment until I remember that tomorrow isn’t a real wedding day, the kind that needs to both live up to daydreams and withstand letdowns. For me, tomorrow is just a Thursday.
If it rains, it rains.
I flatten my palm against the roughly-hewn door and push into the Broken Talon, trying to look like I belong here.
A few heads swivel in my direction.
I stand for a wobbly beat as my bravado attempts to negotiate a swift and embarrassing retreat. Everyone here looks so…normal. They are wearing clothing instead of costumes and undoubtedly know how to make the correct change. I’m out of my element, that much is clear, but faint hearts never won fair ravishings.
I draw a steadying breath and take a closer look at the fine patrons of the Broken Talon. The tavern is crowded, and while I’m not the only woman here, I’m certainly in the minority. Men are everywhere, and by now a lot of them are looking at me. In a strange way, none of this is new. How many dinners, dances, and soirees have I endured under the weighted gaze of men who learned to touch with their eyes? On those occasions, I was expected to float above it, demure and unattainable.
But tonight…I’m allowed to look, too.
I sidestep a group of farmhands—two of them seem familiar, which is not ideal for the mission at hand. Giving a wide berth to anyone who might identify me, I walk deliberately toward the long, gnarled bar counter. As I pass, my eyes fall to a table by the window, where a jostling knot of infantrymen are holding court. I don’t recognize any of them. Visitors of the village, then—likely on their way to the outpost on Precipice Pass.
Hmm.
I make my way toward an empty stool, my pulse rattling with a strange cocktail of daring and nerves, and commit myself to some reconnaissance. Surely one of those soldiers is clean, kind, and available.
Gods. The proverbial bar really is on the ground, isn’t it?
“Is this seat taken?” I absently ask the man sitting beside the stool I’ve decided to commandeer.
Without waiting for confirmation, I perch gingerly on the sticky seat; my eyes are still trained on the infantry. One appears to be belching the alphabet, a skillset that immediately disqualifies him from consideration. Hell. As long as these guys keep telling on themselves, I’ll have no problem sifting the curds from the whey.
“Some would say it’s rude to claim a seat without asking.” A deep voice floats from over my shoulder. “But I would argue it’s worse to ask and not care about the answer.”
“Excuse me?” I gape, turning away from the soldiers to face the man beside me.
And then I keep gaping because—oh.
Oh.
I—
Oh.
Through a blur of static, I woozily recall the scene in The Regent’s Borrowed Bride when Henrietta first sees Hugo, the ignoble blacksmith. In that moment, the heroine, assailed by paroxysms of unbridled lust, utters what I think is the most melodramatic line of dialogue in the entire six volume series: “Your accursed face has rewritten my fantasies.”
Oh, how I’d cackled the first time I read it, reveling in the histrionics of my guilty pleasure.
Henrietta, I get it now.
Holy Dunne, do I get it.
Because the man in front of me is so sickeningly, offensively attractive that I don’t think he’s meant to be looked at.
My eyes sweep over him in a jittery arc—tousled hair, dark eyes, dark beard. A scar slices neatly into that silky stubble, pressing to the sharp cut of his jaw like it’s drawing me a map. Straight nose, full lips, corded throat. In isolation, each of these features are handsome enough. But the way they are composed…the intensity that stitches his face together…
I think, dimly, that the proverbial bar is no longer on the ground. The bar is broad. The bar is tall. The bar is, in fact, sitting next to me.
He’s still looking at me, his gaze unwavering and unreadable. I belatedly realize that this entire revelation was born from him insulting me.
With formidable effort, I snap myself back together. Tall, Dark and Handsome may not know it, but I’ve been basically trained to weaponize wit.
“And I would argue it’s rudest of all not to offer me the seat in the first place,” I drawl, lifting my eyebrow in challenge.
A muscle finally moves in his jaw and I feel a jolt of victory. Turns out I can provoke in all circumstances, including under duress.
The stranger dips his chin in acknowledgement and I sharpen my smile, lifting two fingers to the barkeep.
“Sir, this gentleman would like to buy me an apology drink,” I beam at the man behind the counter. “Two…”
I trail off, tilting my head.
The stranger looks at me for another long moment before turning to the barkeep. “Whiskey.”
“Whiskeys,” I confirm, curling my tone into something more coaxing.
I feel his eyes move back to my face.
The barkeep grabs two dusty tumblers from the shelf and tips an amber bottle over each. When he slides my glass in front of me, it leaves a smear on the scarred bartop.
The stranger watches me, tipping back his own drink. His hand on the glass is a study in masculinity—the blunt ridge of his knuckles, the broad curve of his fingers. It takes him a wonderfully long time to swallow; I watch his throat move in thrilling fascination.
I circle my own much smaller hand around my tumbler, but make no move to lift it. I don’t want to drink; I am acutely aware of every part of my body right now, and I want to keep it that way. The rational part of me tries to argue that the immediate ferocity of my attraction isn’t wise, but I can’t bring myself to overthink this.
I came here for a reason—and hand to Loial, I found it.
One time. One night. I could feel those fingers. I could touch that throat. I could know what it’s like to be the reckless, careless, wild thing I’ve been accused of being for the last ten years.
In an attempt to steady my thrashing pulse, I draw a slow inhale—a mistake, because now I’m breathing in his soap, which, unsurprisingly, seems to be a narcotic.
And then I ask the single most insane question of my life.
“Are you...staying at the inn?”
I’m angled toward him, with parted lips and flushed cheeks. I might not be as demonstrative as Henrietta, but there is no conceivable way he can misinterpret my meaning.
There is a very long pause, and I slither right into it. Perhaps sensing the proximity of my expectant gaze, he looks down at me. His eyes, I note, wander lazily over my falsified cleavage.
“Yes,” he finally says, and the word seems to spark the air between us.
I hold my breath, scarcely daring to believe it can be this easy.
The silence pulses unsteadily. I bite my tongue; no easy feat, when I have been raised to quell lulls exactly like this. But I need him to do this part. Surely, he knows that too.
Just in case, I slide my hair back, exposing the smooth column of my throat. His eyes move there, veiled and unapologetic.
Yes.
“Are you staying here, too?” His voice is deep, careful. We’re both speaking the common tongue, but his vowels are clipped. Navarrian. Deaconshire, maybe.
“I don’t know,” I slide a half inch closer. From a great vantage, I’m applauding myself and dry heaving at the same time. “Am I?”
There is a singular, perfect moment where I know he considers it. That he’s looking at me—that he sees me—that he wants what he sees.
The power I feel in that moment is sublime.
But then the stranger shifts back, squaring his hips into his stool. His head jerks down, drawing my focus from the dark burnish of his gaze to the slender stick I hadn’t noticed learning against the bar.
I blink at it.
It’s...a cane.
“Does this bother you?” He nods toward the cane, something very close to a challenge on his face. Like he assumes he knows the answer.
“Should it?” I toss back.
In truth, I have no idea if it should bother me or not. As a human, in the world? I could not care less if he uses a cane. As a potential lover, though? I can’t see how, for my intended purposes, it’s a problem. I try to conjure in my mind’s eye the laundress’s sketch—for that, he may need two good legs, depending, apparently, on how you orient it. But that sort of hysterical assessment is reserved for Sloane-at-home, not whatever sultry alter-ego I’m barely adhering to.
He stands, slowly unfolding himself from the barstool, and he certainly doesn’t need the cane for that. My eyes go up, then up some more, because there is a lot of him.
The cane suddenly seems the least of my concerns. Forget his leg. What on earth am I supposed to do with the rest of him?
Whatever dregs of hesitation I was clinging to evaporate. All I can think of is the breadth of him, the solidness, the pressure of all that body against me. The pitch of his voice, the way the vowels drop into gravel. The unreadable flicker in his eyes, moving all over me.
I’m clearly out of my depth and swimming fast, and I don’t care.
Him.
I want it to be him.
It has to be him.
In a haze, I reach for his cloak, skimming my thumb lightly over the clasp. Slowly, I thread the heavy wool through my fingers. I don’t pull him closer. But I could. I could—
As if reading my intentions, his hand snaps forward, wrapping fast around my wrist.
Slowly, he lowers my hand to the bar. I stare at it. His fingers are warm and calloused and putting my hand in the wrong spot.
“Is there someone here who can escort you home?”
I snap my gaze to his face, which is completely and utterly unaffected.
I blink, glancing back at my diverted hand. Oh gods. Mortification hits in waves—the rejection of my advance, of my touch, of me in general. He doesn’t just want me off the barstool. He wants me out of the tavern.
I swallow, my throat closing over the tide of embarrassment before it can register on my face. For better or worse, I’m practiced at this part, too.
“I can take care of myself,” I snap, lifting my chin. “And who says I’m ready to leave?”
I deliberately put my eyes on the table of infantry, my insinuation clear.
The stranger continues to regard me, his expression still infuriatingly calm. It’s almost as if spoiled blondes self-destruct in front of him on a daily basis.
And then, he leans forward. Close enough that his mouth hovers just above my burning ear.
“Kisa,” he murmurs. “The scuff patterns on your boots indicate you only ride sidesaddle.” He lingers a beat, and my flush flares hot. “The perfume you’re wearing is bergamot, imported from Deverelli. And that glass of whiskey is the filthiest thing hands this soft”—his thumb arcs once over my stupid, needy pulse—“have ever touched.”
The air leaves my lungs in a stuttering exhale; I suddenly fear I may pass out.
“So, I’ll ask once more: who is escorting you home?”
At that extremely inopportune moment, the tavern door bangs open, and two guards from the Trent estate file in, with Jonah the stableboy trailing sheepishly behind them.
The tavern falls silent.
“My apologies, Lady Sloane,” Jonah very unhelpfully calls out. “I told them you weren’t to be disturbed.”
“My lady, you are wanted back at the estate,” Timmons, a ginger-haired guard I’m actually quite fond of, has the decency to look apologetic. “So I will need you to conclude your...ah...evening.”
“Lady Trent requests that you try on your wedding gown one more time,” Niels, a dark-haired guard I want to pummel to ash, looks positively delighted. “You know. Before tomorrow.”
Three dozen heads swing my way. I am acutely aware that I’m a hair’s breadth from a solid wall of muscle, breathing fast into the confines of my useless corset.
As it turns out, I am a credit to Lady Trent after all, for even now, I don’t flinch. I don’t cower. I remain cool, calm, and collected, even as armed forces come to collect me.
And if I’m leaving this tavern, it will at least be on my terms.
For the love of Amari, something has to be.
“Very well, then, gentlemen.” I reach out and pluck the tumbler from the stranger's hand. “To the gallows we go.”
Without sparing a glance for anyone in the tavern, including the man who wouldn’t have me, I down the whiskey and sweep after the guards, swishing my cloak like this entire sequence of events was orchestrated for my own benefit.
Behind me, the stranger makes a low, indistinguishable sound.
It catches and pulls, a snagged, involuntary release. I am certain, at that moment, that he didn’t mean to make it.
I carry that sound home, turning it over and over between my ribs.
It isn’t until much later, as I stare sleeplessly at the suffocating canopy above my bed, that I understand it was a groan.