Chapter Eleven
Eleven
The sound of drapes being pulled open drags me back. Fabric rustles. Sunlight explodes into the room. I blink against the gold spilling across the walls.
Ow. My head.
I wince, pressing my fingers to the back of my skull. There’s a bump the size of a goose egg pulsing there like a neon sign: You fell. Hard.
The room around me is aggressively gorgeous. Sunlight filters through dew dappled windowpanes and pours across the intricate waves carved into the bedframe and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A canopy hangs above, gauzy and sheer as a cloud.
Through the open balcony doors, jagged cliffs bite into the sea. Waves crash violently against them, and across the moody waters, I spot an island—mist-shrouded, wild, connected only by a crumbling stone bridge that screams death trap but in an Instagram-worthy kind of way.
Two maids bustle around the room, completely unaware that I’m conscious. One lights a fire in the hearth, coaxing kindling into a crackling flame. The other flits past a line of delicate glass decanters with her feather duster, their contents glowing in strange shades of green and cobalt blue.
I shift, the silk blankets tangling at my feet as I take in the room.
A chaise lounge sits in the corner, its velvet upholstery dyed the color of midnight seas, the fabric plush enough to drown in. The faint scent of the ocean and pine needles wafts in, mingling with the floral sweetness that lingers in the air and something else—something warm and mouthwatering.
My gaze shifts, and my stomach growls at the decadent tray perched on a silver pedestal.
Delicate pastries, their golden crusts glistening with sugar crystals, are arranged alongside slices of fresh fruit.
Crispy bacon curls beside a bowl of yogurt crowned with flower petals and nuts, and a steaming pot of tea sits beside a crystal carafe of wine.
My fingers graze the edge of the silk sheets before finding the rough crustiness of my dress. It’s still on me. Stiff with dried blood. Crumpled. Filthy.
I slept in this? The thought alone makes my stomach twist.
And then another thought—a hotter, more intrusive one—flares to life. Alder should have undressed me.
Actually, no. I want to be awake for that.
My cheeks flush as memories crowd in. The way Alder looked at me, how his voice softened when he spoke my name, the way his touch steadied me, soothed me, made me feel like I was worth holding together. The kiss—God, that kiss. And then…fade to black. Literally.
Where is he, anyway?
I kick off the blankets and slide to the edge of the bed. My bare feet hit the cold floor, and I rise with a grimace, still tender all over. I need a shower. And caffeine. And maybe a different life.
“Excuse me,” I begin, voice sleep roughened.
The two maids spin around like I just pulled a knife. Their eyes widen as they take me in—bare feet, blood-streaked dress, tangled hair.
“Oh,” the taller one says, halting mid-swipe of the mantel. Her dark hair is pulled into a severe bun that tightens her already severe features. Something about her feels familiar, though I can’t quite place where I’ve seen her before. “We weren’t expecting his lordship to have… company.”
She says the last word like a curse, like I should be embarrassed.
Beside her, the shorter maid flushes, her round cheeks coloring as she averts her gaze to the floor. She shifts awkwardly and clears her throat. “We should, um…” Her voice is soft, almost timid. “Perhaps we should have waited—”
Her gaze flits up to mine briefly before darting away again, and I freeze. She looks just like Elsie from Wilder Ever After. It’s uncanny—the same red hair twisted into a simple braid, the same round eyes, freckled cheeks, and delicate features.
Another doppelg?nger, clone, multiverse look-alike.
“Sorry.” She winces. “No one told us Lord Lockhart wasn’t…sleeping alone.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a visiting lord enjoyed a bit of entertainment,” Pinched Face adds, the edge of her smirk deepening as she glances pointedly at the bed and then back to me. The insinuation hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but crystal clear.
The redhead elbows her. “Clara, stop.”
Clara waves her off. “She knows I’m right.”
My jaw twitches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think it’s fairly clear, don’t you?”
Heat scorches my cheeks. I’m too stunned to clap back. Too thrown by the not-Elsie clone and the fact that this entire morning already feels like an outtake from a Regency-era sex scandal.
“Clara,” the redhead whispers.
Again, Clara waves her off with a flick of her wrist, her sneer widening as she crosses her arms. “No trunks. No other belongings. Just a mysterious woman asleep in his lordship’s bed? A mysterious paid woman.”
I clench my teeth, but I force the words out evenly. “You’ve got the wrong idea.”
But honestly, who the hell cares if I were a sex worker? And, side note: If I were, I’d be charging a hell of a lot more than whatever she would guess.
“For heaven’s sake.” I square my shoulders and draw in a steady breath, meeting her gaze head-on. “I don’t know what story you’ve built in your head, but I am not the villain.”
The room falls into a strained silence, the weight of my words pressing against the tension like a hand against a bruise.
Clara’s mouth puckers, and for a fleeting moment, something flickers across her face—regret, maybe, or recognition. Whatever it is, I take it as a win.
Beside her, Not-Elsie nods, her round face flushing as she offers a hesitant smile.
I glance down at my dress and grimace. “Any way you can help me figure out how to look like less like a horror show and more like a human being?”
The door flies open.
Alder barrels in, shirt partially unbuttoned, coat flung over one arm, his hair a perfect mess. He sees me standing and stops. Blue eyes rake over me, wide and sharp and furious with worry.
“Gemma, God.” His voice cracks down the middle as he crosses the room in three long strides. He tosses his velvet coat over the bed and cups my face with both hands like he’s checking for damage. “You scared the shit out of me.”
His thumbs brush my cheeks, his eyes scanning every inch of me as though cataloging what’s left. “You look like hell.” He swallows hard, his jaw tightening. “I can’t have you depreciating now. Not after everything I’ve done to get you back.”
My brows shoot up. “Did you just refer to me as an investment?”
“The castle physician is across the kingdom delivering some noble’s baby,” he continues, ignoring me. “And unfortunately, I left my on-call concierge and team of specialists in a different fucking world.”
“My lord,” Clara says, executing a stiff curtsy. “We’ve come to prepare you for your session with the council. I assumed you’d want to send your…guest on her way.”
“She was injured. She’s not going anywhere.” Alder’s head snaps toward her. “I won’t have her walking off, blacking out, and forgetting where she belongs.”
My stomach squeezes. My pride snarls. I hate how both reactions hit me at once.
Clara’s eyes narrow, but before she can muster another cutting remark, Alder raises a hand to silence her. “Your concern is noted.”
His gaze cuts to me. “You shouldn’t be on your feet. You need a bath, clean clothes, and then a day in bed drinking tea or doing whatever women here do with their time.”
I blink. “Excuse me? I like tea just fine. It’s great, in fact. What I don’t like is being told what kind of woman I’m allowed to be.”
He smirks. “Believe me, sweetheart, no one could ever tell you what kind of woman to be. But maybe someone should tell you not to charge into danger while still bleeding.”
My lips thin, and I cross my arms over my chest.
“Sweetheart, I found you bleeding, half-conscious, and barely able to stand.”
“I’m fine now.”
“You hit your head so hard, you wandered off and passed out.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“No,” he says smoothly, stepping closer, “you need a bodyguard and a GPS tracker.”
“If you think I’m staying in this room all day like some delicate little flower, you’re out of your mind.”
Alder’s voice drops to that maddening murmur that gets under my skin in all the worst—and best—ways. “And if you think I’m letting you wander around this castle after yesterday, you are sorely mistaken. You belong in bed.”
I arch a brow. “And what exactly do you think I’ll be doing in bed all day?”
He leans closer, lips brushing my ear. “With me around? Let’s just say rest won’t be the priority.”
My breath catches. My toes curl into the plush rug, my body betraying me with a rush of heat that spreads from my cheeks to places I’d rather not admit.
Clara and not-Elsie gasp in tandem.
“You,” Alder says sweetly, “be a doll and draw Gemma a bath.”
“Me?” Clara squeaks.
“You seem eager to help.”
Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, before she dips into a curtsy. “Of course, my lord. It’s just that…a woman of her station—”
“I’ll help you, miss. If it’s all right.” Not-Elsie jumps in.
Clara grabs her and hisses something I don’t catch. Alder’s already moved on—grabbing a slice of toast like this is just another day.
I stalk toward the breakfast tray and grab a piece of fruit, the sugar-dusted edge crunching between my fingers. “We need to get back to our world.”
“I’m working on it.” He chews, unbothered. “I want you resting today, back to yourself. If we were home, I’d give you my card and tell the driver to take you to The Shops, lunch, and then a massage.”
“We’re not home, Alder. And this is not a spa.”
He shrugs and plucks a pear slice from the tray like we’re standing in his penthouse kitchen instead of a castle that’s literally mistaken him for some medieval lord.
“I’ve already spoken to Victor and Delphara.
The man I’m impersonating is here to negotiate trade.
I’ll play along, get the intel we need, and find a way back. ”
“You don’t negotiate royal trade deals,” I say flatly, watching him eat like this is all so casual, so normal. Like he hasn’t fully grasped the fact that people are literally dying in this place.
“A negotiation is a negotiation,” he says, licking juice off his thumb. “And you know better than anyone how good I am at getting what I want.”
My stomach twists, and I chew slowly, letting the tart flavor distract me. But the truth is there, pulsing at the back of my mind. I let him take over back home because it was easier than fighting the world alone.
“I need more than that,” I say. “Who are these people? Why do they think you’re someone you’re not? Why aren’t they suspicious?”
He pours himself a glass of wine—of course it’s wine at this hour, because Alder Hawke has never been ruled by a clock—and raises it lazily. “Sweetheart, the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”
“Spoken like every man who’s ever lied to my face.”
He smiles like I’ve complimented him, like my outrage is a cute little display he can fold neatly into his morning. “You’re getting room service in a castle. Doesn’t that count as a win?”
“No. A win would be not being confused for medieval escort Barbie.”
His smirk grows, infuriating and smug. “Admit you’re enjoying this.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I shoot back, my grip tightening on the fruit in my hand.
Clara clears her throat. “My lord, the council awaits.”
Alder sighs as if playing lord in a fairy tale is taxing. He rakes a hand through his golden hair and turns to me with that lazy half-grin that always means he’s about to do something wildly annoying. “We’ll talk later. Try not to get into any more trouble while I’m gone.”
He follows Clara into the attached room. The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left standing there, clutching a piece of fruit and absolutely drowning in the knowledge that nothing—absolutely nothing—is what it seems.