Alder sighs like I’m exhausting but adorable and steps behind me, wrapping himself around me, his warmth pressing against my back. His arms don’t cage me in exactly—but they could. Easily.
“See, this is what happens when you spend too much time away from me.” His lips brush the shell of my ear. “You get all wound up.”
My mouth falls open. “I was only away from you for six months.”
“And in those six months, you clearly worked yourself into a state.” His hands slide up my arms, thensettle at my shoulders, kneading gently. “You need me to keep you occupied. Trust me, Gemma. I know what’s best for you.”
The waterfall towers above us now, its thunderous roar vibrating through the ferry, through me. The mist clings to my skin, and I feel so lost I could cry.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay tense beneath his hands. “I don’t actually trust you.”
“No?” Alder makes a low sound, something between a chuckle and a hum of disapproval. “That’s cute.”
I scowl. “It’s not cute, it’s a fact.”
His thumbs press deeper into the knots at my shoulders, working the tension apart like he has the right to undo me.
“Oh, sweetheart.” His tone is thoroughly unimpressed. “It always takes people a minute to reacclimate after they realize they’ve been outmaneuvered.”
My stomach clenches. It’s a throwaway comment, meant to needle me, to remind me that he’s always three steps ahead. But the way he says it?
I stiffen, shrugging away from his touch. “I hate this…everything. Being stuck in some strange world with you.” The lie tastes like chalk, dry and crumbling.
The waterfall closes behind us with a roar, the sound swallowing the air as the shimmering curtain seals us in. There’s no turning back.
“You don’t hate being here with me,” Alder murmurs, his voice all whiskey and smoke, his fingers just shy of entwining with mine. He leans down, close enough that I can feel his smirk without even seeing it. “You just hate that, even in another world, I’m still always right.”
My lips part—for what, I don’t know. Because thetruth, no matter how much I want to avoid it, is painfully, undeniably clear.
He’s not wrong.
Eight
The castle’s outer walls ripple with intricate designs ofwaves frozen mid-motion. Silver pipes twist and curve through the stonework, catching the light and reflecting the shimmering water below in a way that makes the entire castle seem to move, to breathe. It’s beautiful in a haunted ghost story sort of way, and I am not big a fan of the horror genre.
The guards disembark first, their boots striking the stone dock with sharp thuds. They fall into formation and march ahead, leading us toward the towering entrance. But just before we reach the doors, they part—wordlessly, seamlessly—leaving us to continue alone.
My steps slow, the knot in my stomach tightening as my gaze lifts to the massive doors ahead. They loom over us, carved from the same dark, polished wood as the ferry and inlaid with silver gears and cogs. The instant we approach, a low groan vibrates through the metalwork. The gears engage, clicking and spinning, and the doors swing open to reveal a grand hallway that stretchesdeep into the castle.
Figures line the interior, draped in the same midnight blue cloaks as the one who guided the ferry, their smooth metallic masks glinting like moonlight on water.
Alder looks like he’s arriving at a five-star resort, while I stand there, gaze darting between the endless corridor and the masked figures flanking the walls like a very niche horror movie ensemble.
“Ladies first.” Alder gestures for me to go ahead.
I don’t move. “What if it’s booby-trapped and giant axes come swinging out of the walls? Or—” I point at one of the smooth, unlit sconces lining the entrance. “Or poisonous poo-covered darts fly out, and I end up looking like a toxic pin cushion?”
His lips twitch. “Poisonous, poo-covered darts?”
I fold my arms. “It’s called self-preservation.”
Alder tilts his head, considering. “How about this? You walk in first, and if you die, I’ll have a wing added to the Library of Congress in your honor.”
I pause. That actually sounds…incredible. A whole wing dedicated to me. Floor-to-ceiling books, a plaque, maybe even a reading room.
Damn him.
“If I die, I’m haunting you,” I mutter, and a chill skates through me as I step over the threshold.
