Chapter 19
The tension in the carriage is palpable.
It presses in on me with every mile we put between ourselves and the inn, thick and suffocating, filling the narrow space until there is scarcely room to breathe.
With each jolt of the road, our knees brush—once, twice—and every accidental touch sends a low, traitorous warmth stirring inside me, nudging nerves that refuse to settle.
I cannot stop thinking about the way he held me.
About how confident his grip was, how utterly unashamed. No human man has ever made me feel so claimed, so thoroughly possessed, and that unsettles me most of all. Because I do not know where it came from or why.
Why now?
I am infuriating. Disobedient. He has told me as much more than once. You do not hold someone like that, do not touch them like that, if all you feel is disdain.
Luceran shifts across from me, with one arm braced along the back of the carriage, the other resting loosely against his thigh. His legs spread just enough to encroach on my space, his presence suddenly unavoidable, impossible to ignore.
I sit rigid, staring straight ahead.
Then his hand moves.
It drags slowly along his thigh before settling at his belt, thumb hooking just inside as his fingers drum idly against his hip.
I gulp.
I shift in my seat, trying to angle myself away, trying to keep his knee from pressing into mine, but he does not give me the space. Instead, the contact lingers, as though daring me to acknowledge it.
The windows fog rapidly now, breath and heat turning the glass opaque, the air thick and heavy enough that I swear I can taste him in it.
He says nothing.
Neither do I.
I am too terrified to speak. What would I even say? That my thoughts are spiralling? That my body is betraying me? That I do not know whether I am imagining this tension or if he is deliberately winding it tighter with every calculated movement?
Is he toying with me?
All I know is that part of me wants to fling open the carriage door and leap out into the snow, desperate to escape this suffocating closeness and another part of me wants something far more dangerous.
Something reckless.
To leap across the carriage, to straddle him and demand he rid me of the throbbing ache wound unbearably tight beneath my dress.
The thought alone makes my mouth water, my throat dry. Heat surges through me so suddenly it feels like a shock, every nerve tightening, sparking, pulled so taut it borders on pain.
Then, like a bucket of ice water thrown straight over my head, the carriage lurches to an abrupt halt.
The door swings open, with the oppressive heat rushing out as a flood of cold air pours in.
There it is.
Home.
The world beyond the carriage is pitch black, the farm and barn swallowed by a starless night that only makes the falling snow gleam brighter. A single lantern burns in the window, spilling amber light across the porch, guiding me to where I have longed to be.
“Do you need help out of the carriage?” Luceran asks.
I shake my head quickly. “No. I can manage.”
And I do.
Before the sprites can even lower the step, I jump down, boots crunching into ground that is more frozen mud than snow. I walk toward the house at first, but with each step my pace quickens until I am running, dress hitched above my knees, breath tearing free of my chest.
The front door flies open, and my father steps out.
That’s all it takes.
The sight of him, smaller somehow, thinner than I remember, nearly breaks me.
He stumbles down the steps, sobbing openly now, arms unfurled, and when I reach him and collapse into his embrace, the weight of everything finally gives way.
We sink to our knees together, clinging to each other in the freezing mud.
“Neve,” he breathes. “My beautiful girl. Is it truly you? Are you truly here?”
“It’s me, Father,” I say, my voice cracking as I finally let myself cry. A tear slides down my cheek, salt on my lips. “I’m here.”
“He let you go,” Father says, chest heaving with joy and disbelief. “That bastard let you go.”
The carriage creaks as someone shifts behind me.
I turn just as Luceran steps down, pale and striking in the dappled moonlight, loose strands of ivory hair slipping free from his knot to frame his face. His mismatched eyes, fire and ice, burn vividly in the dark.
My father stiffens.
“My Lord Luceran,” he stammers, horror flooding his features. He bows so low his forehead nearly meets the ground. “I did not mean…please…”
My jaw tightens, teeth grinding together.
I will not see my father like this.
“Get up, Father,” I say, keeping my voice gentle despite the fury roiling inside me. “You don’t have to do that.”
He shakes his head fiercely, one terrified eye fixed on Luceran as he resists my attempt to pull him upright.
“Neve, what are you doing?” my father mutters under his breath, panic threading his voice. “You’ll make him angry.”
“That is what she does best,” Luceran says mildly as he steps forward. “And often.”
I scowl, but he continues.
“But for now, she is correct. You do not need to bow.” His voice lowers, loses its edge. “I am not here as your lord.”
He inclines his head, only slightly, only as much as his pride will allow, but it is unmistakably a bow.
“Tonight,” he says, “I am a guest in your home.”
My father stares at him, stunned, brows drawn tight as his mind scrambles to make sense of what he’s seeing. I can almost hear the thoughts colliding.
“I earned a favor,” I tell him, lifting his chin until he looks at me. “I used it to see you.”
His shoulders sag as understanding settles in. He cups my cheek with his weathered hand and exhales a long, weary breath.“Neve,” he murmurs. “What have you done?”
I lean into his touch, eyes closing. “What my heart wanted.”
Luceran’s footsteps are almost silent, but I know he is moving toward us. I am beginning to feel him whenever he is near, and it is not only the chill that follows him. It is more than that. His scent. His breath. His presence presses in on me, unsettling and impossible to ignore.
He stops beside us, where my father and I still kneel in the mud. He reaches out, and my father gulps when he realizes the lord intends to help him to his feet.
My father looks to me almost for permission.
I nod.
His wiry arm trembles as he reaches out, fingers shaking, and when Luceran’s hand closes around his, it nearly disappears within that powerful grip. I brace myself, expecting Luceran to haul him upright with effortless force.
Instead, he is careful.
He guides rather than pulls, steadying my father until he’s standing on his own. My father remains stunned long after Luceran releases him, staring at his hand as if he doesn’t recognize it.
Luceran’s gaze drops to me next.
And it is not the same.
There is no gentle restraint there, no courtesy. His eyes are darker now, hungry in a way that makes my pulse stumble. He reaches for me, but I turn away before his hand can find purchase, pushing myself to my feet and brushing mud from my dress.
That earns a faint smirk.
“Please,” my father says hurriedly. “Lord Luceran. Welcome to my home. I don’t have much, but all I have is yours.”
He turns and rushes inside, already fussing, the sounds of frantic tidying drifting out. A clattering kettle, muttered curses, the panic of a man desperate to offer hospitality where there is little to give.
I climb a few steps after him, then stop.
Turning back, I find myself nearly level with Luceran’s eyes while he remains at the foot of the stairs, moonlight cutting sharp lines across his face.
“He means that,” I say quietly. “We don’t have much. But I won’t have you make my father feel small in his own home.”
Luceran’s head snaps up. “I have no intention of humiliating your father,” he says flatly. “I did not come all this way to be cruel.”
“Then why did you come?” The question spills out of me before I can stop it. “What was that back at the inn?”
His eyes narrow as he folds his arms across his chest, expression closing like a door.
“What was what?”
I lift a pointed finger. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
He exhales, tilts his head, and looks away, as if the night sky has suddenly become fascinating. “I’m quite certain I have no idea what you mean.” Then, smoothly, “Your father invited me inside. So, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He goes to step past me, but without thinking, always without thinking, I grab his elbow.
He stops abruptly, even though I am nowhere near strong enough to keep him from moving. His gaze flicks to where my hand grips him.
“You let Rollin go,” I say. “Why?”
His eyes lift to mine, that burning gaze cutting straight through me.
“He owed a debt. I can do with him as I please, and I do not need to explain that to anyone. Especially you, Neve Devlin.”
But I do not let him off that easily.
“Was it mercy?” I press. “You knew he would die if you left him out there.”
“You think I care if a human dies?” he says, his tone cruel, mocking.
“Maybe not once,” I say. “But now I think things might be different.”
His hand moves to where my fingers still cling to him, and my breath hitches as he brushes against my skin, only to peel my hand away and reclaim his arm.
“Rollin was old and useless. He cost me more coin to feed and house than he ever earned back,” he says. “You have seen the ledgers. You know that is true. Releasing him saved me a fortune.”
Luceran takes another step toward the open door.
“Or is it because he heard the voice in the tunnels?” I ask. “Were you saving yourself coin, or saving Rollin from being taken over by the demon beneath the lake?”
He does not look back. He does not answer.
Instead, the boards of the porch creak beneath his weight as he ducks through the doorway, leaving me with the distinct sensation that I have skipped several pages in a book and missed something critical to the plot.
I follow him inside and close the door firmly behind me.