Chapter Seven
Seven
The moment my butt hits the bench, the plush velvet cushions envelop me.
The fabric is deep red and impossibly soft.
The rest of the interior is just as opulent.
Golden filigree spirals along the walls, tracing intricate patterns that catch the light filtering through small windows etched with designs of pentacles and twisting vines.
The ceiling is lined with embroidered silk, its pattern mirroring the patterns on the glass, while the floor is covered in a thick, luxurious rug that makes me want to rip off my dirty flats and spread my toes.
Too bad I don’t have time to revel in the fantasy.
Alder steps in behind me, and as soon as the door shuts with a heavy click, I whirl on him.
“What the fuck are we doing? I’m trying, Alder, really trying, to let you lead here, but this is getting out of hand.
Armed guards are taking us to an undisclosed location.
That’s literally the start of a true crime documentary. ”
“They’re taking us to the Kingdom of Cups,” he corrects smoothly, settling onto the seat across from me.
“Oh, well, that clears everything right up,” I snap, crossing my arms. “A kingdom. My bad. That’s so much better.”
He props his ankle on his knee, unbothered. “You’re spiraling.”
“No shit! You do see the suits of armor escorting us, right? The horses? The carriage? We’ve stepped into an alternate dimension where Prime hasn’t even been invented yet. Not that that would be a particularly bad thing.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, his voice maddeningly calm. “You told me last night you wanted me to handle it, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
I press my fingers to my temples, inhaling deeply through my nose. “Alder, handling it means calling a car service, booking a flight home—not being kidnapped by men who sound like they’ve stepped out of a Ren Faire.”
“Gemma. Sweetheart.” His voice is all honey and steel, sliding down my spine and settling low in my stomach. “I don’t need to call for a car. I am the car service.” He gestures around us, the movement lazy, arrogant. “This is what it looks like when I take care of things.”
I gape at him. “You’re insane.”
“I’m the only one with a plan.”
My jaw clenches. “And what exactly is the plan? Because I must have missed the part where we discussed you waltzing into a fairy tale and becoming the main character.”
With a chuckle, he leans back and stretches his long arms along seat. “We’re going to Cups. We’re going to play along. And then we’re going to get home. You don’t have to worry about the details.” His eyes flick over me, slow, deliberate. “You just have to sit there and look pretty.”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“Relax,” he drawls. “You’re always working. Always fighting. You made the right decision, letting me take over.” His voice dips lower, coaxing, persuasive. “You deserve this, Gemma. You deserve not to have to worry.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Alder, I don’t—”
“I know, I know you don’t want to admit you need help. But you do. And that’s why I’m here.”
I swallow hard, my fingers curling into the plush velvet seat. “And what exactly do you get out of this arrangement?”
His smirk sharpens. “You.”
A war rages in my chest. Every single thing he’s saying is everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve agreed to. Safety. Security. The end of the constant fight to survive.
It’s so easy to let him take over.
And that’s the problem.
I force a scoff. “You don’t own me now, you know.”
His blue eyes darken, amusement flickering into something more dangerous. “Sweetheart, I owned you the second you decided I was your best option.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right.
As Mackenzie would say, I sold my soul and punani for comfort. For money. For him.
Maybe he could fight back against the guards, maybe he’d even win. But me? I’m at their mercy—and his.
Alder watches me, head tilted, like he’s waiting for me to catch up to something obvious. Then he sighs, low and indulgent, like I’m a child throwing a tantrum over a scraped knee. “Come here.”
Before I can react, he grips my wrists, shifts his weight, and pulls me firmly enough that my body follows, sliding across the plush carriage seat with zero resistance.
The soft cushions absorb my stumble, and then I’m right beside him, my thigh skimming against his as the scent of him—apples and linen and something darker, warmer—fills my lungs.
His hand comes up, fingers threading into my hair with a touch so gentle it unravels something inside me, something I should keep locked up tight. He strokes down the length of it, slow, like he has all the time in the world, and then he bends, brushing a kiss to the top of my head.
“There she is.” His lips move against my scalp, sending a slow, unwelcome shiver down my spine. “I told you. I’ve got this.” His hand shifts, his palm smoothing over my shoulder, his breath warm against my temple. “Everything is going to be okay.”
I keep my back straight at first, my shoulders tense and stiff beneath the weight of his arm.
My gaze locks onto the passing blur of green fields and distant trees beyond the carriage window, but I can’t focus.
The questions spinning in my mind are loud, but Alder’s voice is louder, stronger, curling in the spaces between my ribs, coiling into a steadiness that almost feels safe.
The tension bleeds from my body in slow increments. My shoulder softens first, leaning ever so slightly into his chest. The steady rise and fall of his breathing pulls me closer, and it’s comforting. So, so comforting.
My head tips until it finds the curve of his chest.
He strokes his fingers through my hair again, and I let myself relax.
I don’t trust him. But right now, I need him.
Outside, the guards ride alongside the carriage on horseback, their polished armor catching the light and glinting like mirrors.
Beyond them, endless fields stretch out, the tall grasses bending in the breeze.
Their pale tips shimmer like liquid gold under the relentless sun, a living, breathing sea of light and movement.
It’s beautiful, almost hypnotic, but my attention is quickly pulled to the horizon.
I sit up and shove the curtain aside, pressing closer to the glass as my gaze sweeps over the landscape.
Massive structures dot the field, their hulking forms grotesquely beautiful.
One strides on long, insect-like legs, its spindly joints clicking and whirring as it moves.
Steam hisses from pipes that jut out at odd angles, shrouding the giant contraption in shuddering mist.
Another machine—a huge, gleaming sphere—spins lazily in place. Its exposed inner workings are a maze of burnished steel that pumps and pulses with the fire of pistons and faint puffs of steam. Gears line its outer shell, spinning in perfect harmony, their silver teeth glinting.
The air seeping into the carriage is thick, heavy with a metallic tang that coats my tongue. It’s sharp and salty and laced with the acrid bite of oil and tinged with electricity, like a storm waiting to break.
I press a hand against the glass. “What are those things?”
Alder leans forward beside me, peering out like we’re simply admiring the view. His fingers rest casually on the edge of the window, as if we’re not lumbering toward something unnatural and inexplicable.
“Impressive,” he murmurs, brows lifting in appreciation.
“Impressive?” The word sticks in my throat like a splinter. “You cannot be serious.”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Come on, sweetheart, don’t tell me you’re not at least a little awestruck.”
“Awe isn’t the word I’d use,” I mutter. My skin prickles as the low hum of the machines vibrates through my chest and the carriage lurches forward. “Those things could crush us. What if they’re weapons? What if they’re—”
“They’re not weapons.” His tone is maddeningly casual, as if we’re discussing weather and not towering metal nightmares that could stomp us into the dirt.
“Look at how they’re moving. They’re working.
See the pipes on that one?” He nods toward the massive sphere.
“They’re likely venting heat. It’s regulating itself. ”
“And nothing says safety like machines the size of buildings needing to regulate their own heat.”
Alder chuckles and drapes an arm over the back of the carriage seat, fingers idly playing with the loose strands of my hair. “You worry too much.”
I whirl back to face him. “No, you worry too little! We”—I gesture between us wildly—“don’t know where we are.
We don’t know how we got here. And we don’t know what those things are!
But you”—I jab a finger into his chest—“you’re leaning back like we’re on a damn honeymoon carriage ride through the English countryside. ”
His smirk deepens, his blue eyes sparking, and I realize, too late, that I played right into his hands. “Sweetheart, if this was our honeymoon, you’d be in my lap screaming for an entirely different reason.”
My stomach flips. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re spiraling.”
I press my lips together, exhale sharply through my nose, and sink back into the plush velvet.
The carriage crests a small hill, and the town sprawls out around us.
Our pace slows as we descend over cobbled streets and into the village.
Buildings rise on either side of us, their stone facades weathered with age and interwoven with gleaming metal.
Silver pipes twist along the walls like veins, carrying plumes of steam to and from towering machines that hum and click from where they’re mounted on top of thatched rooftops.