Page 18 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor’s Destiny (Time for Monsters)

T he farewell from Abbie had been bittersweet. Deep in my heart, I feared I would never see her again. A founded worry, since I didn't think I would ever return to London, or anywhere in England for that matter. My future was either in Egypt or America. Time would tell.

The rented carriage arrived in the early morning hours. It was still dark, and gas lanterns were the only illumination since thick clouds covered the skies. Two horses neighed and stomped restlessly from foot to foot while the carriage driver loaded up the baggage.

Now we were sitting in what would have been a relatively roomy carriage if it hadn't been for the size of my travel companion. Travel companion, I mused, feeling resentment rising up inside me. He was still my captor, and I needed to remember that. No matter how nicely he had cleaned up in his gentile clothing, he was still an insane barbarian who had abducted me from my wedding. It didn't matter that he might or might not have saved me. He hadn't known that. Plus, he thought he was a god. Insane, like I said. Utterly insane, this man.

Still.

Now and then I snuck a glance at him through lowered eyelashes while I pretended to read a book. He looked very smart in his suit. The cream lace contrasted beautifully with his olive skin and dark hair. Hair I had talked him into at least tying at the nape of his neck with a tie that matched his cravat. He had refused the top hat but kept it next to him. He had, however, embraced a walking stick, and now he never let go of it.

The dark suit trousers fitted tightly around his thick thighs, which were bigger than my waist. His massive shoulders stretched the material of his jacket, the tailor had wanted to fit it for him, but that would have taken a few days, and Vardor was in a hurry. There was no denying his good looks, many women turned their heads whenever the carriage stopped for a short while.

For hour upon hour, the carriage rattled over the uneven road, the wooden frame groaning with each jolt. My back pressed against the velvet seat. The fabric felt anything but luxurious. It was old and worn, nothing like the carriages I was used to riding in with Thomas.

Vardor sat across from me, watching me like a predator deciding when to pounce. The lantern inside flickered, casting shadows that danced across his sharp, unforgiving features. His black eyes gleamed in the dim light, too intense, too knowing, as if he could hear the frantic beating of my heart.

I swallowed hard and folded my hands in my lap, desperate for something—anything—to ground me.

"You haven't said a word since we left the rest stop," I muttered after a while, hating how my voice wavered.

Vardor didn't move. Didn't blink. His fingers drummed idly against the carved handle of his ever-present walking stick. The same he had used to break a man's jaw at the last rest stop without giving it a second thought. The man had accosted me when Vardor left the table for a moment to order more food. I had asked the man nicely to leave me alone, but he had grabbed my arm, and that was when Vardor returned and lashed out.

"How could you?" I had wailed while the man was lying moaning on the ground.

"He dared touch you," Vardor replied as if his reaction was the most normal in the world. We hadn't spoken since.

"You wish for words, Roweena?" His voice was a low growl, rough like stone grinding against stone. He leaned forward slightly, and I tensed. He had no right to be so calm while I questioned my sanity with every mile that took us from London and brought us closer to Portsmouth. I was collaborating with him. With the man who had abducted me. A man I had watched kill. A man who had just broken another's jaw for touching me. He was a barbarian. He was insane.

"You dragged me from my wedding," I reminded him—or myself, I wasn't sure which—clenching my fists. I needed the reminder. I needed to remember how he had dragged me through the streets of London into a temple ruin. It was hard to reconcile that barbarian with the refined gentleman sitting across from me.

"You ruined my life," I accused.

A slow, mocking smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "You need to stop pretending that your life was worth mourning."

I sucked in a sharp breath. "Excuse me?"

"You were marrying a man who planned to lock you away." His fingers curled around the walking stick, knuckles whitening.

My nails dug into my palms. "You didn't know that when you took me!"

His smirk faded. His eyes darkened, something deeper and more dangerous flickered beneath the surface. "And what would you have done, Roweena? Would you have stood at the altar and let him claim you?"

The word claim sent a shiver through me—not of fear, but something far more unsettling. So unsettling that I kept fanning the slowly burning embers of my rising anger.

I forced my chin higher. "I had a plan."

Vardor exhaled, slow and measured, as if forcing himself to remain seated instead of storming across the carriage and shaking sense into me. The tension between us thickened, filling the small space with an almost suffocating heat.

"Remind me, little one," he murmured, voice as sharp as a blade. "What was your brilliant plan?"

I swallowed. With him this close, his presence a heavy force pressing against me, my carefully laid plan felt... pathetic.

I averted my gaze. "It doesn't matter now."

Vardor hummed, a low sound of both amusement and something else—something unreadable. "No, it does not."

He leaned back, settling into his seat as if the conversation had bored him. As if I were not worth arguing with. Something about that dismissal made my blood boil.

"You are insufferable," I hissed.

His smirk returned, slow and wicked. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. I already felt like I wanted to scream. I wanted to slap him. But more than that, I wanted to ignore the fact that I was still shaking, not from fear, but from the way he had looked at me—as if he already owned me.

It was getting dark by the time we arrived in Portsmouth. Mud and a broken wheel had cost us a couple of hours of additional travel time, forcing me to try and clear mud from Vardor's trousers, just like I had tried to stop him from helping the driver. Both had been futile.

The scent of brine and damp wood hung thick in the air. The streets were slick with rain. Cobblestones glistened under the glow of oil lamps mounted on iron posts, their dim flames flickering against the wet ground. Shadows stretched long and deep, pooling in alleyways where figures lurked—dockworkers finishing their shift, sailors spilling from taverns thick with smoke and the tang of cheap rum.

I pulled my cloak tighter around me, the bite of sea air feeling sharp against my skin. Even though the night was cool, the smell of fish, tar, and unwashed bodies made the air feel heavy, oppressive. The further we traveled down the winding streets, the louder the sounds of the port became—shouted orders, the rhythmic creaking of docked ships swaying against their moorings, and the occasional clatter of hooves as carts hauled barrels of supplies toward the water.

Vardor stood unmoving across from me, his black eyes reflected nothing but the flickering light outside. He hadn't spoken in hours; his silence was somehow more suffocating than the damp air.

"Where are you going?" He demanded when I moved toward the docks where the ships were moored.

"I need to stretch my legs for a moment," I said. But it wasn't entirely true. I had spent all my life in London, dreaming not only of Egypt, but of what it would be like to travel. Never in a hundred years would I have imagined to do so with my kidnapper, but here I was. Despite the darkness, I could see the ocean over the many bodies and sizes of ships, hear the sound of water slapping against aging wood. The moon stood high, allowing me a full view of the endless vastness of the ocean. A sensation of incredible freedom spread through my chest as I inhaled the air deeply. Which was ironic since I was still a captive, but right then, it didn't matter.

"It's beautiful," I remarked when I heard Vardor's heavy footsteps approaching.

"It stinks," he grumbled. "Come, you can look at the ocean to your heart's content for the next few weeks."

Reluctantly, I followed him back to the carriage, where the driver was unloading our luggage.

I noticed nearby dockworkers and saw how their conversations faltered as they sized Vardor up. Even in the gloom of night, even with his fancy clothing, he didn't quite blend in.

His sheer size, the way he carried himself—like a conqueror surveying his next territory—made him impossible to ignore. And he wasn't even trying. Deep primal instincts in men made them recognize the predator among them. It didn't matter that there were many of them and only one of him, I saw in their eyes that none of them would challenge him. Not that they would challenge a gentleman at all, they had no reason to, still. It was a most disturbing moment.

"Now what?" I asked, my voice hushed as my gaze moved once more toward the docks, where masts stretched into the sky like skeletal fingers, black against the moonlit night.

Vardor didn't answer right away. Instead, he inhaled deeply, his broad shoulders rising with the motion, as if he were tasting the air, reading something I couldn't. His fingers flexed at his sides, then curled into loose fists.

"There," he finally murmured, motioning toward a cluster of ships further down the docks, their flags snapping in the wind. "One of those will take us where we need to go."

I followed his gaze, and nerves coiled in my stomach. Suddenly, I wasn't so sure how I felt about stepping onto a ship, of leaving England behind forever. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself here with Thomas instead of Vardor, but failed. He was too much of a presence to allow any other person in, not even in my mind.

And yet, standing next to him in the cold, watching the restless water churn in the harbor... I felt something else entirely.

Something akin to fate had brought me here, had me standing next to this man instead of Thomas.