He leaned toward the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging the surface. Outside, the shadows shifted, but he couldn’t make out any landmarks. The realization struck him like a splash of cold water—he had no idea where they were.
Growing uneasy, Tristan reached for the curtain and yanked it back, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned closer to the window. The cool glass fogged under his breath as he blinked against the brightness of the full moon hanging high in the sky, casting its silver glow over the countryside. The earlier storm had passed, leaving behind a pristine night, but the serene beauty of the landscape did little to soothe the panic rising within him.
This wasn’t the road home. And he had no clue where he was.
Chapter Three
Tristan’s pulse quickened,the dull thud of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. The familiar cobbled streets of the city had been replaced by a narrow dirt road cutting through open fields. The moonlight painted long, eerie shadows across the ground, and the trees that lined the path swayed gently in the night breeze, their branches resembling skeletal fingers reaching for the sky. With each passing second, Tristan’s dread deepened, knotting tighter in his gut.
He squinted through the window, desperately searching for some sign that he was mistaken, that this was merely a detour. But the truth was undeniable—they had left the city behind entirely. The moonlit fields stretched endlessly, broken only by the occasional silhouette of a barn or a distant tree line. There was no bustling city noise, no distant glow of lanterns, no sense of home. Only the lonely hum of the countryside and the steady rhythm of the wheels grinding over uneven terrain.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head as if the motion alone could dispel the nightmare unraveling before him. His alcohol-addled mind fought to make sense of it, but clarity came crashing down in a wave of horror—they were heading in the wrong direction. Far from home. Far from safety.
Panic gave way to anger, and Tristan’s jaw tightened as he pounded his fist against the roof of the coach. “Dudley!” His voice cut through the night like a whip, sharp and demanding. “Where are we going?” His breath hitched as he waited, straining to hear the familiar voice of his driver offering some explanation. But all he heard was the crack of the reins and the pounding of the horses’ hooves—faster now, more urgent.
The coach suddenly surged forward, throwing him off balance. He slid off the seat and hit the floor hard, a curse tumbling from his lips as the impact jarred his senses. Gritting his teeth, he scrambled back up, gripping the edge of the seat for support. The vehicle swayed violently, nearly tossing him again, so he dug his fingers into the fabric of the seat.
What was Dudley doing? Why weren’t they slowing down?
Determined to put an end to this madness, Tristan lunged toward the door and grabbed the handle, yanking it with every ounce of strength he could muster. The leather of his gloves squeaked against the cold metal as he pulled harder, ready to confront Dudley and demand answers. But the door didn’t budge.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried again, shaking the handle, twisting and pulling. Panic swelled like a rising tide, drowning his initial anger. This wasn’t a stuck latch—something was holding the door shut. His mind raced, frantically searching for an explanation, until a chilling sound reached his ears.
A faint, metallic rattle. Like chains brushing against each other.
His breath hitched, and he froze for a moment, the sound cutting through him like a dagger. Slowly, he leaned closer, listening. The noise was unmistakable—metal links shifting with the swaying motion of the coach. His fingers trembled as he tried the handle one last time, but it was no use.
The door had been chained shut.
A cold shiver crawled down his spine, settling deep in his bones. His breath quickened as dread wrapped around him, squeezing tighter with every passing second. This wasn’t an accident. Someone had locked him in here, and whoever it was, they had no intention of letting him out.
Tristan’s mind raced as he tried to think, to form a plan, but the fog of alcohol clouding his thoughts made it nearly impossible to focus. His gaze darted around the dark interior of the coach, searching for anything he could use—a weapon, an escape route, anything that could free him from this trap. But the space was suffocatingly small, and every second that ticked by seemed to drive the walls closer, trapping him like prey.
He pressed his palms against the window, his breath fogging the glass as he tried to peer outside. The horses galloped wildly, their hooves tearing up the dirt road, and the shadow of the driver’s silhouette loomed faintly at the front of the coach. But there was no sign of anyone else. No sign of an accomplice. Just the eerie glow of the moon and the endless expanse of countryside rushing by.
Tristan’s throat tightened as he realized how isolated they were. Even if he managed to force the door open, where would he go? The fields stretched endlessly in every direction, and the coach was moving too fast to jump without risking serious injury. But staying inside wasn’t an option either. He had to act, and fast.
He pounded his fist against the door, the thudding noise reverberating through the cramped space. “Dudley!” he shouted again, his voice laced with desperation. “Stop the coach!” But there was no response. The horses didn’t slow. The chains didn’t loosen.
Sweat beaded on his brow as he leaned back against the seat, his mind spinning with questions. Who had done this? And why? His instincts told him this wasn’t just a random act of sabotage—this was deliberate. Someone had planned this, and whoever it was, they had made sure Tristan wouldn’t escape easily.
But Tristan Worthington had survived worse. If they thought chaining him inside a coach would break him, they were sorely mistaken. His fingers curled into fists as determination ignited within him, burning away the last remnants of drunken stupor.
He wasn’t going down without a fight.
Tristan pounded again. “Hear me now. If you do not stop this vehicle immediately, I will have you thrown in prison for kidnapping.”
He waited for Dudley to comply, but his wish was not granted.
This couldn’t be happening. Worry tightened around his chest, constricting his breath as fear surged through him. His mind raced with possibilities. Would this disrupt the wedding tomorrow? Part of him, admittedly, wished for an excuse to delay it, but the thought of causing more worry for his mother tightened the knot of dread in his stomach.
He realized he had no other choice but to sit back and wait, helpless to whatever fate awaited him. Was this a kidnapping? Or perhaps the coach had spiraled out of control without the driver at the helm? But that thought didn’t hold. If something had happened to the driver, the door wouldn’t have been chained shut. No, Tristan was sure of it now: he was being kidnapped.
What felt like hours passed, though his sense of time was warped by the pounding of his head and the growing unease. The coach continued its relentless pace until, with a sudden jolt, it stopped. Tristan quickly glanced out the window, his heart pounding harder.
They had stopped deep within a forest, surrounded by towering trees that blocked out much of the moonlight. The dense foliage made it difficult to discern exactly where they were, but nestled among the shadows stood a small two-story cottage. It looked secluded, isolated, the perfect place to remain hidden from the world. The place was completely unfamiliar to him, as were the surroundings. For a fleeting moment, he imagined an elderly couple living here, tucked away in a private retreat far from Society’s watchful eyes.
But something told him this was no cozy homecoming. The stillness around the cottage felt unsettling, the air thick with tension. Tristan’s pulse quickened as he waited for whatever—or whoever—was about to come next.
