Page 15

Chapter 15

Fantasia

I t only takes a couple hours before the highway begins to wind through the Appalachian mountains and broad, forested hills rise up on either side of us. Piers warns me to drink extra water now that we’re entering a higher elevation. I reluctantly agree. The last few days have been unpleasant enough without adding elevation sickness to my plate.

The exit we take becomes rougher and rougher as we go deeper into the mountains until we’re driving on nothing but dirt. Up ahead, the trees clear enough to show us a small lodge covered in overgrown shrubs, with a large sign for Cupid’s Valley Honeymoon Cabins dominating the porch. We pull onto the empty stretch of gravel in front of it, and when Piers turns the car off, he gives me a firm look.

His eyes soften, just a little, as they pass over the bruise on my jaw.

“Can I trust you to stay here while I grab the keys?”

“As tempting as it is to rush off into the mountains and be eaten by a bear?” I ask dryly. Piers doesn’t crack a smile in response, and I feel a shocking ache in my chest, like I’ve failed at something.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and slams the door behind him.

What the hell am I doing? We’re on the run, hiding from enemies I didn’t even know I had until yesterday, and the only person I can rely on is the man I once swore to destroy.

I glance down at my side, where the dull ache of my stitches tugs with every breath, a reminder of just how fragile I am right now. Running isn’t an option. Even if it were, where would I go? What would I do?

The truth hits me harder than I’d like to admit: I have no one else.

I’ve been fighting Piers at every turn, but for what? He’s risked everything to keep me alive. He’s stayed by my side even when I’ve made it as difficult as humanly possible. And despite my protests, I know deep down that I’m safer with him than I’d ever be on my own.

The car door opens, pulling me out of my thoughts. Piers slides back into the driver’s seat, dangling a keyring with a large heart-shaped fob between his fingers.

“Cupid’s Valley,” I say, giving the sign a once-over. “How fitting.”

His brow arches. “For two fugitives pretending to be married and hiding out in a honeymoon cabin? Yeah, it’s poetic.”

I smirk. “At least now your wife has a place to rest her delicate head.”

He chuckles low in his throat, starting the car and steering it toward the cabin marked on the fob. “Delicate, huh? I must’ve missed that part between the death glares and sharp comebacks.”

“Well, you’re still here, so I must be doing something right.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he lets it drop.

Our cabin is made of warm wood slats and floor-to-ceiling windows, with a wraparound porch that gives us a stunning view of rolling mountain valleys no matter which direction we’re facing. For a moment, it feels surreal- too serene, too perfect- like we’ve stumbled into someone else’s dream.

Piers moves ahead of me, his gaze sweeping the area like a hunter scoping for prey. I linger by the door.

“Stay behind me,” Piers mutters, his hand brushing against mine as he pushes the door open. The cabin interior is just as stunning- polished wood, soft light, and a roaring fire already burning in the hearth.

Before I can fully take it all in, a sudden movement catches my eye from the kitchen. My heart leaps into my throat as a man in a crisp white chef’s jacket steps out, carrying a tray of steaming dishes.

Piers reacts instantly, his hand flying to his sidearm. The metallic click of the safety being released.

The man freezes mid-step, his eyes widening as he takes in Piers’s drawn weapon. Slowly, he raises one hand, the tray tilting precariously with the other. “Monsieur, please! I am only the chef!” he blurts out, his French accent thick and his tone a mix of fear and indignation.

Piers doesn’t lower the gun. His eyes remain locked on the man, his body tense and ready to strike. “You’re the chef?” he demands, his voice cold and measured.

“Oui! Oui! A private chef, hired to prepare your dinner. That is all!” The man jerks his chin toward the tray in his hand, his sharp mustache twitching. “Please, monsieur, do not shoot! The sauce took hours to perfect.”

Piers’s grip doesn’t waver, but I can see the gears turning in his head, analyzing every detail of the man in front of him.

“Piers,” I say softly, placing a hand on his arm. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

After a beat that feels like an eternity, Piers lowers the gun, though he doesn’t holster it. “You should’ve announced yourself,” he mutters, his tone still laced with suspicion.

The chef exhales sharply, the tension in his posture easing as he adjusts the tray in his hands. “My apologies, monsieur. I did not mean to startle you.” His sharp smile returns, though it’s decidedly more cautious now. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Donovan!” he exclaims, setting the tray on the dining table with exaggerated care.

I bristle at the title. When did we become an American couple?

Piers clears his throat. “Just- uh, Patrick is fine.”

The chef claps his hands together. “Bien s?r! I am Chef Marcel, and I will be taking care of you during your stay. Tonight, I have prepared a delicate filet mignon, seared to perfection, with a red wine reduction, accompanied by truffle mashed potatoes and a winter greens salad.”

I blink at him, completely thrown. Piers, for once, is at a loss for words.

Chef Marcel continues, undeterred by the silence. “For dessert, a crème br?lée with the slightest hint of orange zest. And, of course, a bottle of our finest cabernet sauvignon to pair with your meal.” He gestures to a bottle chilling in an ice bucket, beaming like he’s just announced we’ve won the lottery.

Thank god there’s wine.

“It is my honor to provide the finest dining experience for our guests. You’ll find everything you need in the kitchen, and if you require anything else, I am but a phone call away.”

Before either of us can respond, he executes a dramatic bow and heads for the door. “Bon appétit!”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving us in stunned silence. The cabin is quiet except for the crackle of the fireplace. Piers helps me settle into one of the chairs at the small, elegantly set table. His hands are steady as they guide me down, but as soon as I’m seated, his attention turns to the kitchen.

“I’ll grab us something to drink,” he says over his shoulder, disappearing behind the counter.

I barely hear him as I zero in on the bottle of cabernet sauvignon, its deep ruby hue glinting in the soft light. Condensation beads on its sleek surface, and the sight of it is magnetic- impossible to ignore. My fingers twitch with an old, familiar need as I reach for it.

The cork is already loosened, practically inviting me to indulge. My hands move with anxious speed, pouring the wine into the nearest glass. The rich aroma fills the air, intoxicating even before the first sip. My mouth waters as I bring the glass to my lips-

“Not happening.”

Piers’s voice slices through the moment, calm but firm. Before I can react, the glass is plucked from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. I snap my head up, locking eyes with him as he sets the wine and my glass on the far end of the table, just out of reach.

“What the hell?” I snap, heat rising in my chest.

“You don’t need that,” he replies, his tone maddeningly even as he moves to the counter.

“Don’t tell me what I need,” I shoot back, my voice cutting through the quiet cabin. “After what I’ve been through, I deserve this.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look at me as he reaches for a pitcher of grape juice and pours two glasses.

I stare at him, incredulous. “Fruit juice? Are you kidding me? Do you think that fixes anything?”

“Think of it as a reset,” he says, sliding into the chair opposite me. His eyes hold mine, unyielding but not unkind. “You’ve been through enough without adding this to the mix.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter as I grab the glass. “A reset? For what? There’s nothing left, Piers. No plan, no future. Just this cabin and…” My voice cracks, and I hate the way it betrays me.

“And what?” he presses, his voice softer now, as if he’s afraid I might shatter.

“And nothing!” I slam the glass down, the juice sloshing onto the table. “This is it! This is all there is. You dragged me here to play house like some twisted honeymoon fantasy, and for what? To pretend everything’s fine when it’s all falling apart?”

Piers’s jaw tightens, his knuckles whitening against the table. “We’re not playing house, Fantasia. We’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

“Surviving for what?” I demand, rising to my feet. My chair scrapes against the floor, the sound grating and loud. “There’s no future for me! Don’t you get that? I’ve lost everything- my home, my title, my country. England’s gone. My life is gone. It’s over!”

His eyes gleam, edge-hard, like a blade catching light. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth!” The words erupt from me, raw and jagged, leaving a hollow ache in their wake.

My chest heaves as the weight of my confession settles, the truth too heavy to hold in any longer.

“You’re wrong,” he says at last, his voice low but steady. He stands and crosses the space between us in one stride, his presence overwhelming. His hands grip my shoulders, grounding me even as I try to twist away. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here. With you.”

My throat tightens, the fight draining out of me as hot tears blur my vision. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my voice cracking.

“Then let me help you,” he murmurs, pulling me close. At first, I resist, my fists weakly pushing against his chest, but he doesn’t let go. His warmth seeps into me, his steady heartbeat anchoring me to the moment.

Piers’s arms come around me, warm and all-encompassing, a blanket thrown over reality. I’m too tired to fight, too tired to be proud. I bury my face in his chest, breathing in the smell of his clothes and his skin. His hand cups the back of my head, his fingers dipping into my hair. His other hand paints soothing circles on my shoulder blades.

His voice softens as he leans closer. “Do you remember that night in the library? The time you snuck out of bed, and we sat in front of the fireplace until dawn?”

The memory surfaces unbidden. I was sixteen, raw and furious with Achilles for assigning me a bodyguard after I went out to a party without telling him. I’d stormed through Wesley Hall in my nightgown, shaking with anger, and stumbled upon Piers reading in the library. He hadn’t said a word when I collapsed into the armchair opposite him, just pushed a glass of water across the table and let me fume.

“I told you I wanted to run away,” I whisper, the words trembling on my lips.

“And I told you I’d find you no matter where you went,” he finishes, his voice like a thread tying me back to that moment. His words weren't just a promise to protect me- they were his way of showing he cared, like a big brother, nothing more.

“You said it wasn’t fair,” I murmur, looking back at the memory of his face- so calm, so serious, but never once making me feel like I was anything other than someone worth caring for.

Piers nods, his forehead nearly brushing mine. “Because you deserved a world that didn’t make you feel like running was the only option. You still do.”

I clutch at his shirt, his words pressing into me as surely as his arms. “And yet here we are,” I say bitterly, though my voice wavers.

“And yet here we are,” he repeats, but softer, his lips ghosting over my temple. “Still here. Still fighting.”

I pull back just enough to look at him, my breath catching at the intensity in his eyes. The firelight dances across his features, softening the hard lines of his face. The determination there is unwavering, unrelenting.

“I meant what I said that night,” he whispers, his thumb brushing a tear from my cheek. “I’ll always find you, Fantasia. Always.”

His words sink into the hollow spaces inside me, filling them in ways I didn’t think possible. My hands slide up his chest, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as his lips hover over mine.

“I’m tired of running,” I admit, my voice barely audible, a breath away from breaking.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs, and this time, when his lips find mine, there’s no hesitation.

I’m greedy for this comfort. No matter how good his touch feels, I need more to satisfy the void in my heart. It’s been eating away at me for so long that it’s possible it’ll never be filled. But god, I want someone to try.

I want Piers to try.

No matter what I’ve said or done, I want this.

And if there’s no future for me, then it really doesn’t matter if I reach out and take it.