3. Rosalind #2
The concern in his voice makes my chest tight with an emotion I don't want to examine too closely. When was the last time someone noticed my discomfort without being asked? When was the last time someone cared about my wellbeing for reasons that had nothing to do with their own interests?
"That would be lovely," I tell him, meaning it.
As if summoned by our conversation, the carriage begins to slow.
Through the window, I can see we're approaching what looks like a way station—a small clearing where the road widens enough for multiple vehicles to rest. Our other carriages are already pulling to a halt, steam engines hissing as they power down.
"Excellent timing," Ambassador Caldwell says, gathering his papers. "I could use the opportunity to review our schedule and planned approach with the security detail."
The mention of security makes me glance toward the windows again.
I can see our guards dismounting from their positions on the carriage roofs and running boards, their movements crisp and professional.
They're good men, experienced in diplomatic protection, armed with the latest gunpowder and steam-powered weapons.
So why do I suddenly feel like we're being watched?
The sensation crawls up my spine like cold fingers, raising goosebumps along my arms despite the warm afternoon air. I scan the treeline, looking for whatever is triggering this primal awareness, but see nothing except shadows shifting between the massive trunks.
"Rosalind?" Brum's voice carries a note of concern. "You've gone pale."
"I'm fine," I say automatically, though I'm not sure that's true. The feeling of being observed is intensifying, making my skin crawl with the certainty that predatory eyes are tracking our every movement.
We disembark from the carriage into air that tastes even more strongly of roses and something else—something wilder and more dangerous that I can't identify. The other members of our delegation are stretching their legs and conversing in low voices, but their words seem to come from very far away.
All my attention is focused on the growing certainty that we're not alone.
Brum appears at my elbow, offering his arm with that same considerate gallantry that's been charming me throughout our journey. "Shall we take that walk? The fresh air really might help."
I accept his support gratefully, though I notice his eyes are scanning the surrounding forest with the same unease I'm feeling. Maybe I'm not imagining the threat after all.
We move away from the main group, following a small path that leads toward what looks like a stream. The sound of running water is peaceful, but it can't quite mask the sensation of being stalked.
"Brum," I say quietly, "do you feel like we're being?—"
The attack comes without warning.
One moment we're walking peacefully through the dappled afternoon light, and the next the forest explodes into chaos.
Shouts echo from the direction of the carriages, followed by sounds I've only heard in nightmares—the whistle of projectiles through air, the wet impact of weapons finding their targets, the screams of men dying.
I spin toward the commotion, my heart hammering against my ribs, but Brum's hand clamps down on my arm with bruising force.
"Stay down," he orders, his entire demeanor transformed in an instant. Gone is the charming cultural attaché, replaced by someone with the hard eyes and decisive movements of a soldier.
But instead of pulling me toward cover, he's reaching inside his jacket with his free hand. Metal gleams as he draws a compact but lethal-looking pistol from a concealed holster.
"Brum?" My voice comes out as a whisper. "What are you?—"
"Shut up and stay behind me," he snaps, all traces of warmth gone from his voice. He moves with the fluid grace of someone trained in combat, the weapon in his hands as familiar as breathing.
This isn't the man who's been flirting with me for three days. This isn't the gentle soul who worried about my comfort and promised to protect me.
This is a stranger. A dangerous stranger who's been lying to me about everything.
The realization leaves me dizzy with betrayal and confusion. How could I have been so wrong about him? How could I have missed the signs that he was something other than what he claimed to be?
Movement in the trees draws my attention, and I catch glimpses of dark figures moving through the shadows with fluid grace. My blood turns to ice as I realize we're not alone.
We're under attack.
Brum raises his weapon, and I stare at him in shock. The pistol in his hands moves with practiced ease as he scans the treeline.
"Brum?" My voice comes out as a whisper. "What's happening? Where did you get that gun?"
He doesn't answer, his attention focused entirely on the approaching threat. Everything about his posture has changed—the easy charm replaced by deadly competence that makes me realize I never knew him at all.
A figure steps from between the trees, and my breath catches in my throat.
Tall and imposing, with skin that seems to glow in the dappled light.
Dark hair and green eyes that flash gold in the shadows.
A pair of antlers rises from his forehead and stretches in either direction, wild and feral, and along with his pointed ears they mark him as fully fae.
He moves with predatory grace, each step measured and deliberate, power radiating from him like heat from a forge, his body visibly toned and muscular even through a thick cloak and breeches.
The most beautiful and terrifying creature I've ever seen.
Brum shifts beside me, weapon raised, shouting something I can't make out over the roaring in my ears. The green-eyed stranger says something in return, his voice carrying an accent I can't place and authority that makes my knees weak.
Then chaos erupts around us.
Sounds of struggle, shouting, the sharp crack of weapons firing. The scent of roses turns cloying, overwhelming, mixing with something else that makes my head spin. My vision blurs at the edges as shock overwhelms my system.
"Brum!" I try to call out, but my voice sounds distant and strange.
The world tilts sideways. Those impossible golden-green eyes find mine through the chaos—ancient eyes, knowing eyes that seem to see straight through every defense I've ever built.
The last thing I see before darkness claims me is that predatory gaze watching from the shadows, patient and satisfied, like a hunter who has finally cornered his prey.