But now she wasn’t far from the keep, only a few paces, and she would reach the door, barricading herself inside. Besides, Iris was right when she told her the keep was well-guarded. There were soldiers everywhere. There were eyes everywhere.
But there is danger too.
Lydia glanced over her shoulder, the short hairs at the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn’t know what, precisely, it was that frightened her so. Perhaps it was nothing more than the idea of danger, rather than a real threat, which rattled her so deeply and made her think an enemy lurked in the shadows.
Then she heard it—a sound, not loud, not obvious. The soft scrape of a boot against stone, too deliberate to be a servant, too close.
Her eyes flew open.
“Is somebody there?” she called, instantly wishing she hadn’t.
The silence answered her. Her pulse quickened, the nausea returning with a vengeance though this time, she didn’t know if it was because of the baby or the terror that gripped her. Suddenly, she was drenched in cold sweat, a shiver running through her that chilled her to the core.
Lydia stood from the bench, turning toward the door, eager to get back inside, as deep as she could into the heart of the keep.
She didn’t get far.
Hands grabbed her from behind, and a sharp gasp tore from her throat, cut short as one hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled instantly, her heart slamming against her ribs, her fingers clawing at rough wool and leather.
“Nay!” The word came out muffled, useless.
“Quiet,” a man hissed in her ear, his breath sour and close, hot against her cheek. “Daenae make this harder.”
Another arm locked around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. Panic surged, white and blinding, and Lydia’s instincts kicked in as she tried to fight the men off.
Her hands tore at them, trying to claw out skin. Her legs kicked out, desperate to get them to release her, but the men’s grips were strong on her. She thrashed and twisted, trying to force them to release her mouth, at least, so she could scream, but her attackers struggled with her, tightening their hold on her until her skin bruised.
She hoped at least the guards would hear the men’s grunts of effort as they tried to contain her, but her hopes were low. That part of the castle was not as well-guarded now that so many of Elijah’s men had followed him out. While the keep would hold under an attack, the shortage of men was detrimental against a small-scale attack like this which relied on stealth rather than rude force.
It was just like Sebastian, Lydia thought in the haze of panic, to rely on a sneaky attack like this rather than a siege. He was not the kind of man to ever favor a direct confrontation. Why would he do so now?
We should have seen it comin’.
Lydia kicked, hard, her heel connecting with something solid. A grunt followed, but the grip didn’t loosen. She twisted, fought, every instinct screaming. Her elbow struck ribs; her nails scraped skin. She tasted blood—hers or theirs, she didn’t know.
Her mind raced, her fear sharpening into something desperate and feral. She bit down on the hand over her mouth with all the strength she had. The man cursed, jerking back, but the other tightened his hold, crushing her arms against her sides.
“Ye wee whore,” he snarled. “Hold her still.”
Lydia’s scream died in her throat as a rough cloth was pressed hard over her mouth and nose. The smell was overpowering—damp fabric, sweat, something bitter. She thrashed, her vision blurring, her lungs burning as she fought for air that wouldn’t come. Stone blurred under her feet as she was dragged backward, deeper into shadow.
Her last coherent thought was not of fear but fury.
I willnae disappear quietly.
Then the world narrowed, darkened, and finally swallowed her whole.
When consciousness returned to Lydia, it did so in fragments. Cold seeped into her first—into her back, her shoulders, the base of her spine—followed by the ache in her wrists and the dull throb behind her eyes. The ground under her was uneven, roots pressing through thin soil into her bones. Damp air filled her lungs when she finally managed to draw a breath, sharp and metallic with the scent of rain-soaked earth and smoke.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Trees loomed above her, their branches tangled like grasping fingers against a pale sky. For a heartbeat, disorientationwrapped around her. She did not know where she was or how she had come to be there.
Then she moved, and pain lanced through her shoulders. Her arms were bound behind her back, the rope biting into the delicate skin of her wrists. Each movement sent another sting through her arms, another sharp pain through her shoulders where they were bent too far back.
Panic surged so fast it stole her breath. Lydia jerked instinctively, only to be yanked short as the ropes bit into her wrists once more—rough hemp, tight and unforgiving tied firmly around them. She gasped, the sound tearing out of her chest, and her gaze snapped forward only to see soldiers.
Men moved through the camp with brutal normalcy, their boots crunching on wet leaves, their armor clinking softly, their voices low and casual as if this were any other morning. Tents dotted the clearing. A low fire smoldered nearby, sending thin fingers of smoke into the air.
