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“Stay still!” Eldrion’s voice barked over the storm.

Her body stiffened in his hold as he skillfully shifted their positions in the air—he would take the impact for her.

“Please,” she choked against his chest, clinging to him with a desperation born of raw fear.

With an incantation, powerful and resonant, he called on his magic, bending the air around them into a makeshift cushion.

Still, the ground was a relentless predator, racing to claim its prey.

Despite Eldrion’s magic curbing the force of their fall, the impact was hard. The warrior, taking the blunt of the crash, rolled with the shock, their entwined bodies tumbling on the cold muddy grass, his larger frame trapping her beneath him, shielding her from the harsh rain. He laid on top of her, his breaths ragged and irregular, his arms remaining tightly wrapped around her, securing her against him.

She was unharmed, she was alive, and it was this male Anthea owed her life to.

But she was still trapped?—

Anger, burning, searing anger soared through her like wildfire, fueling her—a fierce tempest of rage at the cruel joke her life had become. Anthea was consumed with it: at Eldrion, at Endreth, at the Crimson court, at herself for her gullibility.

A raw cry came from her throat, hands shoving against his solid chest.

“Let me go!”

“No,” he growled back. Eldrion’s grip on her tightened further, pinning her to the ground. Gray eyes bore into hers, a fierce storm brewing in their depths—he was livid.

Then, she broke. Anger turned to desperation. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Let me go. I can’t . . . I can’t do this . . . I won’t be a tool. I won’t do this . . . please—” Her chest heaved with sobs, each one wracking her body with a force that was almost physical.

Pain, betrayal, fear—they all melded together.

She felt utterly alone, alone and so fucking scared.

Eldrion did not speak, did not attempt to placate her. He simply held her.

As her sobs subsided, replaced by a painful hiccupping, she felt an odd sense of comfort seep into her. His presence, while still a reminder of her imprisonment, was also unnervingly soothing.

Then, he moved, maneuvering them so she sat on his lap. Before she had a chance to protest, he was on his feet, lifting her with him. His arms snaked around her, hoisting her up in a bridal carry.

“Put me down!” She squirmed in his hold, her struggles fueled by a desperate need to break free.

As her kicks became more frantic, the elf sighed. “Stop it.”

Anthea wasn’t listening.

Eldrion shifted her again, this time slinging her over his shoulder.

Her world tilted, her view now limited to his broad back and the ground beneath them—it was humiliating, being carried like a sack of potatoes, but she couldn’t do anything else than to clutch at his shirt, the drenched fabric bunching in her fists.

As they neared the castle, figures emerged from the darkness. Beldor and Elodir were running toward them, flanked by two elven guards, their relief evident in their faces.

“Thank the goddess,” Beldor breathed, his gaze lingering on Anthea before shifting to Eldrion. He opened his mouth to say something else. But Eldrion cut him off.

“Not now, Beldor,” he said, not breaking his stride as they continued to the castle. Back into the cage she so desperately wanted to escape from. Her heart ached at the thought.

“Eldrion, take Anthea to her room and join us in my father’s study,” Elodir instructed.

Eldrion complied without a word, carrying her further into the castle, carrying her back to her room, back into her cage.

When he reached her room, he dropped her unceremoniously on the bed, her body sinking into the mattress, making the sheets wet and muddy.

For a moment, she sat there, staring up at him. Then, with a burst of movement, Anthea was up again. “I am not staying here!”