“It wasn’t my choice.”
“Regardless, we should get you home where it is safe,” Evander said, his hand tightening around hers.
Olivia looked down at their joined hands, then up into his face. There was a solemn intensity in his eyes—protective, almost fierce. The furrow in his brow, the set of his jaw… he meantit. He wasn’t just repeating Warwicke’s warning. He was worried forher.
She might have argued that her brother’s townhouse was secure enough, that Dosia and the staff would never let harm come to her. But whatever protest had formed on her lips melted beneath the weight of his concern. And truth be told, it warmed something in her—something soft and fragile that had been growing ever since that kiss.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Let’s go home.”
His features relaxed at once, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I was expecting more of a fight from you.”
“I can’t become too predictable,” she teased. “Besides, you now owe me a cup of chocolate for dragging me away.”
“That is easily arranged.” He turned to Dosia with a nod of gratitude. “Forgive the intrusion.”
Dosia offered him a gracious smile. “You are always welcome in our home.”
Evander shifted Olivia’s hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm with a familiarity that sent a little flutter through her. She allowed herself to lean into him slightly.
“Shall we return?” he asked.
“I suppose,” she said, feigning reluctance, though her heart was quietly soaring. She felt it—every step, every breath, the certainty of it. This—he—was where she was meant to be.
As they stepped through the entry hall and out onto the front stoop, the sun filtered through the clouds, casting the gravel driveway in a gentle light. Olivia’s eyes fell on the waiting coach. But something was off.
The horses were harnessed and still, but there was no movement. No driver on the box. No footman at the door.
Her fingers instinctively tightened on Evander’s arm.
He stopped, just as still. She felt the change in him—the way his body went taut beside hers.
“Wait here,” he murmured.
She nodded, though unease prickled at the back of her neck. The world felt oddly silent. Too still.
Then—a sound behind her. Footsteps? No—too fast. Too close.
She turned, or tried to—but something struck the back of her head with brutal force. A flash of pain burst behind her eyes.
The last thing she heard before the darkness swallowed her was the sharp crack of a pistol.
And Evander shouting her name.
“Westmere!”
The name pulled at the edges of Evander’s consciousness like a ripple across still water. It echoed, urgent, but distant. Everything was dark. Heavy. He wanted to retreat, to let the weight of unconsciousness pull him under again.
“Westmere!”
The second cry was accompanied by a jolt—someone shaking him. His skull throbbed in protest, a hot pulse at the back of his head. Why did it hurt? He tried to recall?—
Olivia.
A coach. A pistol. Warwicke shouting. Olivia slumped in someone’s arms.
Had he imagined it?
Evander’s eyes flew open. “Olivia!”
