Chapter 28
“Alexander—” The word tore from Diana before she could stop it, sharp with terror as the pistol fired.
The sound split the air, deafening, brutal, and in that same instant, Alexander moved.
One moment, he stood before her, tense and ready, and the next, he was already lunging forward, his body turning into the path of the shot with a speed that seemed almost impossible.
The impact came with a sickening force. She saw it.
She felt it, as if the bullet had struck through her as well.
His body jerked, his shoulder snapping back under the force, and a dark bloom spread instantly through the fabric of his coat.
But he did not stop.
Before the echo of the shot had even faded, he was already upon Martin. He hit him with the full weight of his body, driving him backward with a force that knocked the breath from the other man in a harsh, strangled sound.
The pistol flew from Martin’s hand, skidding across the dirt with a dull metallic scrape.
Diana’s breath came fast, sharp, her pulse roaring in her ears, but she moved without thinking, her body propelled by something deeper than fear.
She saw the weapon where it had fallen and lunged for it, her skirts tangling around her legs as she dropped to her knees in the dirt.
Her fingers closed around the cold metal, shockingly heavy in her grasp, and for a moment she simply stared at it, at the terrible reality of what it represented.
Then she lifted her head.
Alexander had Martin on the ground, one knee braced against his chest, his good arm locking Martin’s collar in a brutal grip.
Blood was already soaking through his coat, dark and spreading, but it did nothing to slow him.
If anything, it made him more terrifying.
His face was set, hard and merciless, his green eyes blazing with violence.
“You will not touch her again,” he said.
His voice was low.
Martin struggled beneath him, fury twisting his features. “You think this ends here?” he spat. “You think you can keep her from me—”
Alexander’s fist came down. The sound of it was sickening.
Diana flinched, but she could not look away. Something held her there, rooted, watching as Alexander struck him again.
“You have done enough,” Alexander said, his voice cutting through Martin’s struggling breaths.
Martin laughed, though the sound was broken now. “She will never love you,” he rasped. “You think this makes you a hero? You think she will forget what you are?”
Alexander’s hand tightened in his collar, dragging him up just enough that their faces were inches apart. “This has nothing to do with what she thinks of me,” he said, his tone cold as steel. “It has everything to do with the fact that you will never lay a hand on her again.”
Diana’s chest tightened painfully.
Something inside her twisted, and for one breathless instant, the world narrowed to him. To the sheer, undeniable force of him. The strength in his body. The way he moved without hesitation. The way he had thrown himself into danger without a single thought for himself.
He had taken the bullet meant for her. The realization struck her all at once, full and devastating.
“Alexander—” Her voice broke.
He did not look at her. He was still focused, still braced, still containing the man beneath him as Martin struggled and cursed, his movements growing weaker with each passing second.
“Reins,” Alexander said sharply.
It took her a moment to understand.
Then she moved.
She dropped the pistol beside her and scrambled to the horse, her hands shaking as she reached for the leather reins. They were stiff, tangled, and it took her longer than she liked to free them, her fingers clumsy with urgency, but she managed it, tearing them loose and turning back at once.
Alexander still held Martin pinned to the ground, his breathing heavier now, the strain beginning to show in the tightening of his jaw, in the faint tremor she could see running through his arm. The blood on his coat had spread further.
Too much.
“Here,” she said, her voice unsteady as she knelt beside them.
“Good,” he muttered.
He shifted just enough for her to work, keeping Martin down with one hand while she bound his wrists, her movements hurried but firm, the leather cutting into his skin as she pulled it tight.
Martin struggled once more, violently, but Alexander drove him back into the dirt with a brutal efficiency that left no room for resistance.
When she finished, Alexander did not rise at once. He looked down at Martin, his expression dark, unreadable, and then, without warning, he struck him one final time.
Martin’s head snapped to the side and his body went slack.
Silence fell. For a moment, nothing moved.
Then Alexander exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright.
Diana rose with him, the world tilting slightly as the adrenaline began to ebb just enough for everything to rush in at once—the cold air, the sharp scent of blood, the lingering echo of the gunshot.
“Driver,” Alexander said.
The man, who had been standing frozen near the horses, flinched as though only just remembering himself. “Y-Your Grace—”
“Take your horse,” Alexander ordered, his voice still steady despite everything, “and ride for the nearest constable. Tell them Lord Tilbridge is to be taken into custody at once.”
The man nodded rapidly, scrambling to obey, mounting and riding off with desperate speed.
Only then did Alexander turn to look at her. And only then did Diana truly see the blood.
It had soaked through his coat entirely now, dark and spreading, the fabric clinging to his shoulder, to his arm, to his side. It was far worse than she had allowed herself to believe while everything else demanded her attention.
Her breath caught sharply. “Alexander—”
She moved toward him at once, her hands already reaching, searching, her mind racing ahead of her. She pulled her handkerchief free with trembling fingers and pressed it against his shoulder, the fabric staining red almost instantly.
“Why would you do that?” she demanded, her voice breaking despite every effort to steady it. “Why would you throw yourself into the path of a bullet?”
He remained where he was, unmoving beneath her touch, his entire attention fixed on her with an intensity that made the world seem to narrow to that single point of connection.
Something in his expression shifted as he held her gaze, the raw violence in it easing just enough to reveal something deeper and far more alive, something that settled low in her chest and refused to be ignored.
“Because it was yours,” he said quietly.
The words hit her like a blow.
“What—”
“That bullet,” he murmured, lifting his good hand to her face. His fingers brushed her cheek, warm despite the cold, roughened by the day, and the touch sent a sharp, trembling awareness through her entire body. “It was meant for you.”
Her breath hitched.
“And you thought—” She swallowed hard. “You thought that meant you must take it instead?”
“I did not think,” he said simply.
The honesty of it made her chest ache.
“I saw,” he continued, his voice lower now, softer, though the strain beneath it was unmistakable. “And I moved.”
Her fingers pressed harder against his wound without meaning to, panic rising again as she felt the steady warmth of his blood beneath her hand.
“You could have died,” she whispered.
His thumb brushed lightly beneath her eye. “Then I would have died doing something that mattered.”
Tears burned suddenly, fiercely, blurring her vision.
“You are insufferable,” she said, though her voice trembled. “Reckless. Impossible—”
“And yet,” he murmured, a faint, strained echo of something almost like amusement touching his lips, “you are still here.”
Her heart clenched.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Because of you.”
For a moment, everything else seemed to fall away—the road, the bound man at their feet, the distant sound of hooves as the driver rode for help. There was only this. The space between them. The heat of his body beneath her hands.
Then his weight shifted.
His breath caught, sharp and uneven, and Diana felt it at once, the change in him, the sudden weakening beneath the strength.
“Alexander—”
He tried to straighten but failed. His knees buckled.
She caught him as best she could, though the force of it nearly pulled her down with him, her hands scrambling to hold him, to steady him, to keep him upright as his weight leaned heavily against her.
“No,” she said quickly, panic surging again. “No, you are not permitted to collapse now, do you hear me? You have done quite enough dramatic things for one afternoon.”
He let out a faint breath that might have been a laugh. “Diana—”
“Do not speak,” she snapped, though her voice shook. “Save your strength.”
The sound of approaching riders broke through the moment.
Constables.
They arrived quickly, their presence sharp and authoritative, taking in the scene at a glance—the bound man, the abandoned carriage, the blood. They moved at once, securing Martin, hauling him upright despite his unconscious state, binding him further, speaking in clipped, efficient tones.
Diana barely registered any of it. Her entire focus remained on Alexander and the way his head had begun to tilt.
“We must go,” she said urgently. “He needs a physician at once.”
The constables nodded, already arranging transport, already moving with purpose.
And through it all, Diana remained at his side, holding him, steadying him, refusing to let him fall.
“Your Grace—” one of the footmen began, rushing forward.
“Help me get him to his chambers,” Diana snapped, because if she allowed her voice to soften, she feared it might break. “Carefully.”
Alexander made a sound then, low and strained, and the sound went straight through her. His head had bowed, his face gone paler beneath the harsh line of his beard, though he still tried to remain upright, as if dignity mattered now.
“I can walk,” he muttered.