I step into the room but stop just past the threshold.
He’s different now—colder, sharper, like the man from the chicken coop never existed. And I understand. Pretending to be someone else during high-pressure trade negotiations in front of literal royalty would rattle anyone, even him. But it doesn’t explain why the Alder who joked with me about being the ruler of hens and made me feel like being vulnerable was a strength is now treating me like I’m made of glass.
“Don’t make this sound like I’m having some sort of issue,” I snap, spinning to face him. “This is real, Alder. We have to get out of here.”
He steps in behind me, closes the door, and turns the lock with a soft click. “You’re hysterical.”
My gaze darts to his. “Don’t you dare.”
But he’s already moving closer, his hands skimming my sides, brushing the edge of my dress, his voice low and coaxing. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been through too much. You need to let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of. I need to be believed.”
He dips his head, pressing a kiss just beneath my ear. “Don’t I always know what you need?”
I jerk away. “Do you?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course I do.”
“I’m not making this up. I’m not hysterical. I’m not suffering from some head injury.This is happening. And the sooner we stop pretending like it isn’t, the better chance we have of getting out before we end up…” Words clog my throat as the image of Clara’s body sliding beneath the water flashes behind my eyes. “Beforesomething worse happens.”
His jaw tightens. “You didn’t used to question me like this.”
“Yeah, well, it’s amazing what six months away from a toxic relationship will do to a woman.”
That gets his attention. His eyes narrow. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I cross my arms, nails digging into my sleeves just to keep from shaking.
It’s dizzying, how fast he’s changed—how the man who smiled at me by the waterfall feels like a fever dream compared to the one standing here now. But anger’s easier to hold onto than confusion.
“It means I’ve had time to think. Time to breathe. Time to remember who I am when I’m not constantly trying to be whatever version of me you’ve decided you want that week.”
His mouth twists, but before he can find a comeback, I add, “And if you think I’m going to stand here while you try to dismiss everything I just saw—everything I felt—like it’s some kind of stress-induced hallucination, then you really don’t know me at all.”
“You’re spiraling,” he says, too quickly, like he’s been waiting to use that word. “You’ve always done this—blown things out of proportion when they’re out of your control.”
“You think this is me spiraling?” I ask, incredulous. “I watched a woman die. I saw blood and chanting and a glowing sigil disappear into her skin, Alder. You want to try and tell me that was my attempt to regain control?”
He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me like I’m being ridiculous. Like I’m embarrassing him.
“You’ve always had a flair for drama,” he says with asharp little laugh that grates across my skin. “You used to love making things bigger than they were. It’s probably why the publisher thought you weren’t ready for a promotion.”
I freeze.
The air shifts.
Alder doesn’t notice. He’s moving toward me to distract me with another touch, another charm offensive.
But I’m stuck.
The publisher thought I wasn’t ready for a promotion.
That phrase—those exact words—came from a meeting with HR the day I was fired. Those words gutted me.
I never told him that. And he just said them like he’d heard them before.
I can’t unravel that thread right this second. Not now. Not after everything that’s just happened.
