Page 22

Chapter 22

Fantasia

M y body feels brittle in the silence afterward. All my aches and pains are good ones, but I can’t get my heart to settle down, or my thoughts to stop racing. Piers’s arms are a warm wall around me, blocking out the cruel reality that lurks just beyond the door.

And for the first time, I’m not ready to face that reality again, no matter how much I might deserve it. There’s something happening inside me, something that feels dangerously like… hope.

Before I lost everything I’d ever known, I had to force the people around me to stay. Any time Achilles would question me, I let myself be overwhelmed by the idea of being without him until he came to my rescue. When my lackeys threatened to walk, I paid them more money to remain loyal to me.

When Achilles finally turned on me, it hurt of course. It hurt enough that at one point I nearly threw myself out the second-story window of my room. But once I came out of my alcoholic haze, I could appreciate that trying to coerce people to be around me wasn’t going to make them love me.

I… don’t have to do any of that with Piers. No matter what I say or do, I can’t get this man to abandon me. He’s even deluded himself into thinking we’ll get married once I’ve magically become a better person.

The worst part is- I want it.

I want the impossible. The future he keeps talking about, the one where we make it out of here alive, where we become… whatever it is he thinks we could be.

It’s ridiculous, really. Hope is the cruelest joke the universe could play on me right now, yet here I am, clutching onto it like it won’t cut me to ribbons the moment I get too comfortable.

I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but instead, I press my forehead against his chest and breathe him in. Piers shifts slightly, his lips pressing against the top of my head. His fingers trace absent circles on my back, as though he knows I’m lost in thought but refuses to pull me out of it.

If we survive this, if we get out of this damn cabin, maybe I won’t have to be alone. Maybe I won’t have to keep forcing people to stay.

If I let myself believe it, if I let hope bloom here, in his arms, and he leaves anyway- what then? That should be terrifying. Instead, the idea that it could work is the first thing in a long time that isn’t.

Piers shifts, pressing a slow kiss to my temple before murmuring, “we should set the house on fire.”

I blink, pulling back slightly to stare at him. “Excuse me?”

His arms tighten around me for a second before he pulls back, eyes sharp and calculating now. He’s already moving on to the next step, already formulating a plan while I’m still drowning in the moment we just shared.

“It’s the best chance we have.” He sits up, running a hand through his hair. “We wait until nightfall, set the place ablaze, and use the chaos to escape. If we can get through the forest and make it down the mountain, we can make it to the city. Once we’re at the airport, we get back to Wesley Hall. I can keep you safe there.”

I stare at him. He says it so easily. I can keep you safe. As if it’s that simple. As if we aren’t being hunted by men who won’t stop until they’ve buried us both.

As if I could ever be safe.

He watches me, waiting for me to agree, and for a second, I almost do.

But then my chest tightens, and my stomach flips, a wave of nausea rolling through me so suddenly it leaves me dizzy. I press a hand to my mouth, heart pounding.

“I… I need a minute,” I manage, my voice strained. I turn away before Piers can say anything, my legs unsteady as I hurry to the bathroom. My vision blurs at the edges, the nausea sharpening with every step.

I reach the bathroom just in time, gripping the edge of the sink as my stomach twists violently. I lean over the toilet, my body revolting in sharp, unrelenting waves. My fingers clutch the cold porcelain, knuckles turning white as I fight to stay upright.

When the worst of it passes, I slump back against the wall, breathing ragged. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady myself, but panic claws at my throat.

I press a trembling hand to my stomach, my thoughts spiraling.

Piers’ voice drifts down the hall, his footsteps growing closer. My heart jumps, fear and guilt twisting together. I push myself up on shaky legs, leaning over the sink to splash cold water on my face.

I can’t let him see me like this.

I take a deep breath, forcing my expression into something resembling calm before opening the door. Piers stands just outside, his brow furrowed with worry.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.

I summon a weak smile, my stomach twisting again. “Yeah… just a little off. Must’ve been something I ate.”

His gaze lingers, heavy with concern, but he nods, stepping back to give me space.

Piers continues, going over the details of his plan, but I can’t hear him anymore. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the sharp, panicked thoughts racing through my mind.

It’s just stress. Exhaustion. The chaos of everything happening around us.

I swallow against the sickness rising in my throat again. It’s just the alcohol withdrawals, I tell myself. Or maybe stress. Maybe exhaustion.

Except… I’ve been feeling off for a while now. Not just the nausea, but the fatigue, the dizziness, the strange way my body’s been betraying me… it all falls into place.

And when I do, my stomach drops.

My period.

I’m late.

Oh God.

This can’t be happening.

Not now. Not this.

I’m carrying Piers Warwick’s child.

Everything freezes. The hope, the warmth, the security of the last few weeks- it all shatters in a single, brutal instant.

I can’t go back to England.

I can’t tell Piers.

I can’t trap him with me like I trapped Achilles, because eventually, he’ll resent me for it. Piers is the kind of man who would never walk away from his child- not out of love, but out of duty. He’d stay because he felt he had to, not because he wanted to. And I can’t be that- an obligation, a responsibility he carries because his conscience won’t let him leave.

I know now that forcing someone to love you always backfires. I learned that the hard way with Achilles. He stayed out of loyalty, out of guilt- but in the end, all that did was twist everything between us, until I was certain he hated me.

I won’t make that mistake again. I can’t survive that again.

“What do you think?” Piers pulls me out of my thoughts.

I suck in a deep breath, schooling my features before I face him. “Okay… I think your escape plan is a good one.”

Piers studies me, his brows knitting together like he doesn’t quite believe me, but after a moment, he nods. “Of course it is.” His smirk is back, easy, charming. Like setting an entire house on fire to escape a siege is nothing more than an exciting adventure rather than a desperate gamble for survival.

Normally, I’d roll my eyes. But right now, I can’t find it in me to be amused.

Because I need to go along with this plan.

Because I need him to believe I’m still in this with him.

Because as soon as we make it out of here- out of the mountains, out of the reach of the Crowes and Ashwoods- Piers can’t know the truth.

I have to leave him before he ever gets the chance to stay.

He deserves that much.

And if I let myself think about how much that realization hurts- if I let myself think about the way my heart fractures at the mere idea of walking away from him- I won’t have the strength to do it.

Not when I’ve just begun to imagine a life with him.

A life I’ll never allow myself to have.

So instead, I meet his eyes and force a smirk I don’t feel. “So,” I say, tilting my head. “How exactly do you plan on setting the cabin on fire without killing us in the process?”

Piers grins. “Oh, love, have some faith. I’d never let you burn.”

I wish I could tell him the same. But I’ve already decided- I’ll be the one to walk into the fire first.

Even if it means leaving him behind.

Piers nods back, satisfied, and stands. “I’ll start gathering what we need. The smoke will draw attention fast, so we’ll have to move quick.”

As the day drags on without any activity outside and the sun begins to set, Piers and I keep the lights off. Our attackers may already know we’re here, but there’s no need to advertise which room we’re in. Instead, I follow Piers through the house with a small, dull flashlight while he prepares to set the whole thing ablaze.

I watch, fascinated and with growing nausea, as he builds little piles out of the precut fireplace logs and tinger near the heavy drapes in the living room, on the rug in the dining room, and all around the bed in the bedroom. Each pile he soaks in lighter fluid, ensuring it’ll catch quickly.

The last pile he builds at the top of the stairs leading into the basement, with the door firmly shut and the crack beneath it stuffed with cloth. Inside, the gas stove has been left on, pumping toxic fumes into the room. That pile will be the last one Piers lights, from the dubious safety of the end of a ‘fuse’ made out of more logs soaked in more lighter fluid.

We’ll be standing at the back door, ready to leap out into the forest when the fuse is set. And, with luck, we’ll be far enough away when it blows itself sky high.