Luceran shifts across from me, with one arm braced along the back of the carriage, the other resting loosely against his thigh. His legs spread just enough to encroach on my space, his presence suddenly unavoidable, impossible to ignore.
I sit rigid, staring straight ahead.
Then his hand moves.
It drags slowly along his thigh before settling at his belt, thumb hooking just inside as his fingers drum idly against his hip.
I gulp.
I shift in my seat, trying to angle myself away, trying to keep his knee from pressing into mine, but he does not give me the space. Instead, the contact lingers, as though daring me to acknowledge it.
The windows fog rapidly now, breath and heat turning the glass opaque, the air thick and heavy enough that I swear I can taste him in it.
He says nothing.
Neither do I.
I am too terrified to speak. What would I even say? That my thoughts are spiralling? That my body is betraying me? That I do not know whether I am imagining this tension or if he is deliberately winding it tighter with every calculated movement?
Is he toying with me?
All I know is that part of me wants to fling open the carriage door and leap out into the snow, desperate to escape this suffocating closeness and another part of me wants something far more dangerous.
Something reckless.
To leap across the carriage, to straddle him and demand he rid me of the throbbing ache wound unbearably tight beneath my dress.
The thought alone makes my mouth water, my throat dry. Heat surges through me so suddenly it feels like a shock, every nerve tightening, sparking, pulled so taut it borders on pain.
Then, like a bucket of ice water thrown straight over my head, the carriage lurches to an abrupt halt.
The door swings open, with the oppressive heat rushing out as a flood of cold air pours in.
There it is.
Home.
The world beyond the carriage is pitch black, the farm and barn swallowed by a starless night that only makes the falling snow gleam brighter. A single lantern burns in the window, spilling amber light across the porch, guiding me to where I have longed to be.
“Do you need help out of the carriage?” Luceran asks.
I shake my head quickly. “No. I can manage.”
And I do.
Before the sprites can even lower the step, I jump down, boots crunching into ground that is more frozen mud than snow. I walk toward the house at first, but with each step my pace quickens until I am running, dress hitched above my knees, breath tearing free of my chest.
The front door flies open, and my father steps out.
That’s all it takes.
The sight of him, smaller somehow, thinner than I remember, nearly breaks me. He stumbles down the steps, sobbing openly now, arms unfurled, and when I reach him and collapse into his embrace, the weight of everything finally gives way. We sink to our knees together, clinging to each other in the freezing mud.
“Neve,” he breathes. “My beautiful girl. Is it truly you? Are you truly here?”
“It’s me, Father,” I say, my voice cracking as I finally let myself cry. A tear slides down my cheek, salt on my lips. “I’m here.”
“He let you go,” Father says, chest heaving with joy and disbelief. “That bastard let you go.”
