1. Chapter One - Unfamiliar Ground #2
After swiping on some gloss, I leaned closer to the mirror and took a slow pull from my vape.
The strawberry flavor hit sweet as the vapor curled lazily above my head, brushing the glass before fading away.
I watched it disappear, then ran my fingers through my caramel hair one more time, convincing myself I looked put together enough.
At least my eyeliner looked decent. If I was going to embarrass myself internationally, I wanted to look hot doing it.
Even if my gut disagreed.
I downed the yogurt Ma had left, grabbed my bag, and rushed out the door, tugging my hood halfway up.
A fine mist clung to my coat as I hurried down the smooth pavement toward the curb, the air thick with damp earth and wet asphalt.
Cars passed by, sending water spraying from puddles; everything was moving opposite from what I was used to and forcing me to double-check before crossing.
Being in England wasn’t just about accents or different snacks.
It flipped everything around, turning something as simple as getting to class into an adjustment I wasn’t ready for.
The rain had come overnight, just as I had predicted, leaving the sky heavy with low gray clouds that refused to lift, a few lingering drops still hanging in the air.
My jacket wasn’t exactly made for this weather, but I’d rushed packing and figured I’d pick up something better later.
The jet lag, the unpacked boxes, and the effort of pretending everything was fine had been pushed aside for now.
I stepped over a wide puddle stretching across the sidewalk.
Avoiding them had already become part of my routine, the small jumps offering a brief distraction from the steady walk toward what I’d started thinking of as lockdown central, the college that felt more like confinement than a fresh start.
Music played softly through my earbuds, helping me settle as I prepared myself for the day ahead.
A sudden chill traced up the back of my neck, strong enough to make me glance over my shoulder before brushing it off as jet lag messing with me.
Then a sleek black-and-crimson motorcycle tore past, its engine cutting through the quiet drizzle with a deep, commanding sound that pulled me straight out of my thoughts.
I paused, caught off guard by how striking it looked and the way it gripped the wet road.
I shifted slightly to the rhythm of the music, stealing one more glance to take it in.
Then it stopped.
Not gradually, either. One second it was rushing past, and the next it had come to a complete halt right at the curb behind me.
The engine idled with a low, steady hum, exhaust curling into the mist around us.
I slowed without meaning to, my earbuds slipping out as the music faded beneath the tension settling over the street.
Even under the dull gray sky, the bike stood out, and I found myself wondering about the person riding it through all of this, moving as though the weather didn’t touch them at all.
My stomach tightened as the rider turned smoothly, something instinctive locking my body in place while my thoughts struggled to keep up. The motorcycle blocked the lane completely. Cars were swerving around it while horns blared through the rain, but none of that noise seemed to matter.
I froze at the edge of the curb, my heart pounding hard enough to echo in my ears.
Every instinct told me to stay still and hope he didn’t notice me standing there alone.
It was irrational; I knew that, but I couldn’t stop myself from holding my breath anyway.
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag as the cold sank deeper into my sleeves.
The rider removed his helmet slowly, as though the backed-up traffic were nothing more than distant noise unfolding around him.
He carried himself as if the entire street belonged to him and the rest of us were only passing through it.
His presence settled into the mist with a quiet, threatening weight that made everything around him feel smaller.
The moment his face came into view, my breath caught hard in my chest. Not some light, movie-like reaction, but something real edged with caution, sending goosebumps along my arms and sides.
He was a complete stranger, yet the way he carried himself set off every alarm in my head.
The instinct to run rose fast even as my legs refused to cooperate.
Kidnapping?
The thought was dramatic, probably ridiculous.
Ma would absolutely lose her mind if I got kidnapped before my first class.
Still, the idea stuck because something about him felt wrong in the best and worst way, and running didn’t seem like it would get me very far anyway.
If he wanted to catch me, he probably would before I made it ten steps.
Okay, cool. First day in England, and I was about to end up in a true crime documentary.
He started toward me, each step covering the distance with ease.
His helmet hung loosely from one hand while the other remained relaxed at his side, as though blocking traffic in the middle of the morning didn’t matter in the slightest. I swallowed, fighting the tightness in my throat, and pulled my jacket closer, bracing against the cold.
My eyes drifted to his tousled hair just to avoid meeting the weight of his gaze.
That caught my attention first: dark and wind-tossed, as though he had let the air shape it during the ride, and somehow it had worked anyway.
It framed his face just enough to soften some of the harsher lines beneath.
I hated noticing how attractive it looked.
Especially when the warmth building low in my stomach made absolutely no sense.
Getting caught up with someone like him felt like asking for trouble I didn’t need, yet that didn’t stop the reaction from settling in anyway.
His long-sleeved black shirt hung loose at the collar and hem, revealing flashes of silver chains draped across his chest. One held a cross pendant that caught the gray light with a faint green tint whenever he moved.
An immaculate leather jacket clung to his frame, marked with details that hinted at things he would probably never explain.
His belt gave a faint jingle with each step, metal fasteners brushing together above dark jeans and boots that looked worn from distance rather than neglect.
Nobody should’ve looked that attractive while dressed like a haunted church.
I stayed rooted to the damp pavement, my heartbeat loud beneath my ribs, caught between the instinct to step back and the pull to stay exactly where I was. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or curiosity keeping me there. Probably both.
“Hello,” he said, extending a gloved hand, the gesture slightly too formal for the moment. “My name is Culver Gregory Scarbrough.” He paused, his gaze flicking toward me as though unsure he had said it right. “Might I inquire as to your name?”
This man sounded one step away from calling me “fair maiden.”