He displays a wicked smile as he hurries down the steps. Toward me.
I back up and turn away, then hasten down the street. Or at least, I try to make a quick escape. He easily catches up, grabs my arm, and pulls me to a halt.
I immediately yank my arm from his grasp, and as I spin around to glare up at him, my hood falls back. The cold wind ruffles my hair. I cast a quick glance around to make sure there are no fae patrols nearby. The last thing I want is for one of the horrid creatures to see my face.
According to Mr. Sinclair, many young women have gone missing in the aftermath of the fae attack, and I don’t want to find out what happens to them. Even though I think I know.So, whenever I’m outside, I try to conceal my age as much as possible. Sometimes, I even walk with my back hunched over and a slight limp, hoping to project the appearance of an older woman.
“So, I see you survived the attack,” Peter says. “Where did you hide? And… where are you living now? Not on the streets, I hope. My dearest sister-in-law, you ought to be here living with me. I would keep you safe.” He gives me a lewd look and waggles his eyebrows.
“I see you survived the attack too. More’s the pity,” I reply in a scathing tone. “As for where I hid during the battle and where I’m living now, it’s none of your business.” I start to turn, but he grabs both my arms. Even through the many layers of clothing, I feel his fingers digging into my flesh.
When he leans closer, I detect the whiskey on his breath, and I realize I might need to placate him just to make a safe escape. Everything inside me screams to insult him in as many ways as I can, but it probably wouldn’t be smart to incur his wrath.
“Have you remarried?” His gaze roves over my body before coming to rest on my bosom. The cloak is parted slightly to reveal the dress I’m wearing, one that’s a bit low-cut for winter, but since the cold rarely bothers me, I wore it anyway.
I force a polite smile. “No, Peter, I haven’t remarried. I-I am still mourning the loss of your brother. I loved Harry dearly.” I hold my breath, waiting to see if my calmly spoken words, and the mention of his brother, will douse his anger.
Unfortunately, he sneers and tightens his hold on my upper arms. Oh, how I wish he didn’t look so much like Harry. With his dark blond hair, brown eyes, and similar facial features, they could almost be twins. It’s more than a little unsettling.
He steps closer, putting his body flush against mine. I shudder and try to step back, but he won’t let me go. He leansdown and trails his nose along my cheek, and I nearly gag at the foulness of his breath. My stomach twists with apprehension.
Oh, Gods. How am I going to extract myself from this ugly encounter?
If he tries to drag me into the house, will anyone come to my aid? There’s no one on the street, at least not that I can see, but surely some of the neighbors are home. Maybe. If they survived the battle.
I try to push down the hopelessness that’s rising alongside my fear. I’ve always known Peter had a temper, but until now, he’s never put his hands on me.
“Please, Peter. You’re hurting me. I-I’m working right now, and I have a bag of letters I must deliver. Please let me go.” I hate that I’m begging him, hate that I’m giving him the satisfaction, but I’m starting to worry he might hurt me. His grip is so tight that my upper arms will likely be covered in bruises tomorrow.
“Oh, I’m hurting you, am I?” He chuckles and continues trailing his nose along my cheek.
He keeps taking deep inhales. Disgust rolls through me. Everything about him repulses me. Always has. When he tried to convince me to marry him, I wasn’t tempted for even a moment. I didn’t even consider it when he first threatened to have the constable enforce the inheritance law that meant the cottage legally belonged to him.
“You’ve been drinking,” I blurt. “You should really go get some sleep. Perhaps we’ll run into one another again.”
We won’t. We absolutely won’t.
I resolve that I’ll never set foot on Smithson Lane again.
He straightens, though he doesn’t release my arms. Instead, he starts pulling me toward the house.
Panic descends.
Instinctively, I fight him. I thrash in his grip, and when that doesn’t do anything, I finally draw a long breath into my lungs,then scream for help. I’m not even sure what I’m shouting. I only know that I’m begging a passerby or a neighbor to intervene. I don’t want to contemplate what horrors might befall me if Peter manages to drag me into the cottage.
No one knows where I am. I mean, Isabel and her father know I’m out delivering mail, and the postmaster knows I’m out too, but no one knows my exact whereabouts. I typically deliver letters and small packages all over the north side of Braemar. The point being, if I go missing, no one will know where to look. Not really.
To my relief, I finally hear something. Perhaps help is on the way. Bootsteps sound nearby. I also hear voices. But… there’s laughter too. Deep, eerie, resonating laughter that doesn’t sound quite… human.
I go still. A second later, so does Peter. Not only that, but he releases me entirely. I take two steps away from him while rubbing my upper arms. I put a protective hand on my postbag. I really need to get going and finish delivering these letters.
But that laughter… it chills me to the bone.
I peer down the street at the approaching fae soldiers. Oh, gods. No. This can’t be happening. I silently curse Peter for being the reason a fae patrol finally noticed me.
The leader of the group, a tall muscular fae male with a cocky grin and thick black horns crowning his head, saunters toward us. He stares only at me, and his gaze is both calculating and jubilant. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking, and I pray he lets me go. Maybe he’ll just talk to me for a bit, probably so he can take pleasure in scaring me, and then he’ll allow me to walk away.
Mr. Sinclair’s warning echoes in my mind.
