3. Rosalind
ROSALIND
The air tastes like roses and magic.
I press my face to the carriage window, watching the impossible landscape roll past as our steam-powered convoy chugs deeper into Thorn Court territory.
Everything here defies natural law—roses bloom in perfect spirals up the sides of ancient oaks, their crimson petals never falling.
Vines heavy with flowers I can't name cascade over marble archways that appear to have grown from the earth itself.
Even the grass seems to shimmer with an inner light that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun filtering through the canopy above.
It's breathtaking. It's also making my skin feel tight and strange, like I'm wearing clothes that don't quite fit.
"Magnificent, isn't it?"
I turn to find Brum Ashford leaning closer to share my view, his shoulder brushing mine in the confined space of the diplomatic carriage.
He's been attentive throughout our journey—offering me his coat when the morning air was chilly, making sure I had the best seat, engaging me in conversations about everything from literature to politics.
It's the kind of attention I've always craved but rarely received.
"It's unlike anything I've ever seen," I admit, though I don't mention how the beauty seems to be affecting me physically. My heart beats too fast, my skin feels hypersensitive to every breeze, and there's a restless energy building in my lower abdomen that I'm determinedly ignoring.
It's probably just excitement about the mission. Or anxiety about meeting Prince Kaelen. It certainly has nothing to do with the fae magic saturating this place or any ridiculous omega nonsense.
"The Fae certainly know how to make an impression," Brum says with a laugh that's warm and genuine. "Though I have to say, the company makes the scenery even more enjoyable."
Heat flushes through my cheeks, and I duck my head to hide my smile.
At twenty-four, Brum is only two years older than me, with sandy brown hair and kind blue eyes that actually seem to see me as more than just General Whitmore's daughter.
He's been asking for my opinions on the diplomatic briefings, listening to my thoughts about Fae culture, treating me like an equal rather than a decorative addition to the delegation.
It's intoxicating in a way that has nothing to do with magic.
"Are you always such a shameless flirt, Mr. Ashford?" I ask, trying for a teasing tone despite the way my pulse quickens when he grins at me.
"Only when the lady deserves it," he says smoothly. "And please, call me Brum. We're going to be working closely together for the next several weeks."
Working closely together. The phrase sends a little thrill through me that I try to suppress. I've never had a romantic relationship—Father's protectiveness and my own focus on decorum saw to that—but something about Brum makes me wonder what I've been missing.
Maybe this mission will give me more than just my father’s respect. Maybe I'll return home with renewed ties between humans and fae and a love story that will prove I'm worth staying for.
The fantasy is interrupted by Ambassador Caldwell clearing his throat from the opposite seat. He's a stern man in his fifties, all gray whiskers and disapproving frowns, clearly unimpressed by the younger members of his delegation engaging in anything approaching frivolity.
"Miss Whitmore," he says in his perpetually dry tone, "perhaps you could review the cultural protocols one more time? I want to ensure there are no... misunderstandings during our initial meeting with Prince Kaelen."
"Of course, Ambassador." I straighten in my seat, forcing myself to focus despite the way Brum's proximity makes it difficult to think clearly.
"Standard diplomatic courtesies apply, with special attention paid to hierarchies between fae nobles and royals.
The Prince holds absolute authority within his territory, so any requests or negotiations must be framed as respectful petitions rather than demands. "
"And regarding omega protocols?"
The question makes my stomach clench, though I keep my expression neutral.
"All human women in the delegation are to remain within designated areas unless specifically invited elsewhere.
No unaccompanied exploration of the court.
No acceptance of food or drink that hasn't been cleared by our security detail. "
"Wise precautions," Ambassador Caldwell agrees. "Though I trust a woman of your education and breeding would never be so foolish as to find herself... compromised by Fae influence."
The way he says 'compromised' makes it sound like a moral failing rather than a biological reality. I've read the reports, studied the case histories. Omega awakening isn't about weakness or stupidity—it's magical aptitude and pheromone response, and it can overwhelm even the most prepared women.
But I also know I'm different. I have to be different.
"I'm quite confident in my ability to maintain my dignity,” I tell him firmly.
Brum shifts beside me, and when I glance at him, there's something almost protective in his expression. Like he's ready to defend my competence against the Ambassador's implied doubts.
The gesture warms me more than it should.
"I'm sure Miss Whitmore will represent our delegation admirably," Brum says. "Her linguistic skills alone make her invaluable for these negotiations."
"Indeed." Ambassador Caldwell doesn't sound entirely convinced, but he returns to his papers, dismissing us with the casual arrogance of a man who's never doubted his own importance.
Brum catches my eye and makes a subtle face that has me biting back a laugh. The shared moment of humor feels intimate, conspiratorial, like we're allies against the stuffier elements of our mission.
I find myself studying his profile as he turns back to the window, admiring the clean line of his jaw and the way afternoon light brings out golden highlights in his hair.
He's handsome in an approachable way, without the intimidating perfection I associate with Fae males. He feels safe, familiar, human.
He feels like someone who could love me without trying to own me.
The thought surprises me with its intensity.
I barely know Brum Ashford, yet something about his easy attention and genuine interest makes me want to know him better.
Makes me imagine what it might be like to have someone choose me, want me, stay with me because I'm worth it rather than because duty or circumstance forces their hand.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Just... thinking about the mission," I lie, though my cheeks burn with embarrassment at being caught woolgathering like a schoolgirl.
"Nervous?"
"A little." It's honest enough. "I've never been this far into Fae territory before. The stories you hear..."
"I understand." His voice drops to a more intimate register, and he leans closer under the pretense of speaking privately. "But you know I won't let anything happen to you, right? That's what I'm here for."
The promise sends warmth cascading through my chest. When was the last time someone offered to protect me? When was the last time someone made me feel like I was worth protecting?
"That's very kind," I manage, though my voice comes out softer than intended.
"Not kind. Just true." His fingers brush mine where they rest on the seat between us, a brief contact that sends electricity up my arm. "A woman like you deserves to feel safe."
A woman like me. Not General Whitmore's daughter or a diplomatic asset or a potential omega liability. Just me, Rosalind, worthy of care and protection for my own sake.
I'm so focused on the glow of his words that I almost miss the way his other hand moves to adjust something beneath his jacket. Almost miss the quick, professional way his eyes scan the landscape outside before returning to my face with that same warm smile.
Almost.
But the moment passes before I can examine it too closely, and I tell myself I'm imagining threats where none exist. This is a peaceful diplomatic mission. Brum is a cultural attaché, not a soldier. Of course he's not armed.
The carriage hits a bump in the road, jostling us together, and Brum's arm comes up instinctively to steady me. The contact is brief but electric, his hand warm through the fabric of my traveling dress.
"Sorry," he murmurs, but he doesn't move away immediately. Neither do I.
For a moment, we're suspended in that strange intimacy that comes from unexpected contact, his face close enough that I can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, can smell the faint scent of sandalwood cologne he wears.
Then Ambassador Caldwell coughs pointedly, and we spring apart like guilty children.
"The landscape is becoming more... dramatic," the Ambassador observes dryly, nodding toward the window.
He's right. The gentle beauty we've been traveling through is giving way to something more imposing.
The trees are larger here, their trunks thick enough to house entire families, their branches forming a canopy so dense it blocks most of the sky.
The roses that climb their bark are darker now—deep crimsons and burgundies that look almost black in the filtered light.
Everything feels older here. Wilder. More dangerous.
My body responds to the change with increased restlessness, that strange energy in my core intensifying until I have to press my thighs together to relieve the ache building there. My skin feels flushed, hypersensitive, like every nerve ending is awake and demanding attention.
It's definitely just anxiety about the mission. It has to be.
"Are you feeling alright?" Brum asks, and I realize I must look as unsettled as I feel.
"Just the change in altitude," I lie, forcing a smile. "And perhaps a touch of motion sickness from the carriage."
"We should be stopping soon for the evening meal," he says. "Fresh air might help."