My calves are on fire by the time I make it to the other side of the clearing, which feels four thousand miles long. I pick up speed, bolting across the lawn even though I’m positive a knife is slicing through my ribs.Whydid I take the long loop? What a stupid idea. I shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions.
I suck down sharp breaths of cold night air that make my lungs feel like they’re going to implode, but I don’t slow. If anything, I use every mental trick in my brain to force myself to move faster. I will not let Hyde suffer another loss.
But as I’m dashing down a small hill, my shoes tearing up the damp grass with the finish line in sight, two things happenveryquickly and all at once. Either my tunnel vision is so unwavering that I’ve failed to notice someone throwing themself directly in front of me, or they’ve seemingly appeared smack-dab in my hell-bent path. And second, despite my best attempt at slowing downto avoid a collision, I havewaytoo much forward momentum working in my favor.
I scream.
He screams.
And the next thing I know, I charge right into him as we both go flying into the air before landing hard onto the solid earth.
7
“What the hell?”
At least, that’s what I think I’ve moaned into a mouthful of thick fabric that does not belong to me. I grimace at the pain shooting up my side. It takes me a few seconds to realize we’ve barreled right into the hedges lining the perimeter of Segner. Sharp, thin branches poke through my cardigan, dead leaves clinging onto the soft material for dear life. I remove the larger ones and brush off the gritty earth lodged into my palms.
Wincing, I gently circle my wrists. Nothing feels broken, thank god. I roll over and push myself into a seated position, and that’s when I note a small trace of blood on my sweater. My heart rate spikes. I hate blood, especially if this isn’tmyblood. Other people’s fluids freak me out, which is not exactly an ideal phobia when your entire life path has been careening toward a doctoral degree involving poking around in other people’s mouth fluids.
A dull sting throbs from my side. I tug my shirt up, revealing a scratch across my ribs—likely from one of the branches. It’s barely broken skin. I will, in fact, live. At the very worst, I’ll sport a bruise for a few weeks.
The guy next to me lies on his back, groaning in pain. I twist my legs out from under his to give him space.
“What were you trying to do?” I bite out, annoyed.
The floodlight clicks on. A harsh glow releases over the doorway, but it’s enough to make me do a double take. Because this guy is dressednice. He brushes a few stray leaves from his hair, and I notice he’s not wearing an ordinary suit. It’s a fitted frock coat that drops about mid-thigh, something straight out ofJane Eyre. A deep emerald cravat is secured around his neck, dipping beneath the lapels of his jacket.
What is happening?
Strands of deep golden hair fall just below his cheekbones as he maneuvers to his feet. He looks close to my age, but I’m positive I don’t recognize him. His tan pants are smudged with dirt, which he dusts aside before reaching around me for—I kid you not—a top hat with a curled brim. As he secures it, I can’t help it. I laugh. Never in my life have I seen anyone dressed like they’re ready to warn me about the ghost of Christmas past.
“Drat,” he mutters under his breath.
My side protests as I stand. When I’ve righted myself, he takes a giant step back, inspecting me as though I’m a complex linear equation and he can’t seem to findx.
“Do you—” I start as he says, “What are you doing out here?”
Only thewhatsounds more likewotand—oh.Oh.
He’s British.
But then I realize why he’s blocked my path like a human force field: he’s stopping me from invading Segner.Of coursethey have a backup plan. He’s staking out the dorm to prevent anothersneak attack. God, how annoying. I’ll give it to them. They play a devious game.
Maybe we still stand a chance. This guy doesn’t know Inessa’s inside.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly.
He takes in his surroundings, a concerned crease forming between his eyebrows. “Do you think it wise to be out here alone this late?”
“I—what?” Now I’m confused. “It’s wish night.”
“Wish night,” he repeats, a ring of bewilderment in his tone.
“Yeah, at the fountain?” I gesture in the general direction. “Sorry, are you new here?”
Instead of answering, he lays a hand on the stone exterior of Segner House. I’m no medical professional, but even I can tell when someone’s showing signs of weird behavior. I shouldn’t assume he’s playing the fool to stop me from going inside when something could actually be wrong with him.
Finally, he faces me. “You must allow me to escort you back to your estate.”
