Page 118 of The Betrothal

Yet, I slowed as I skirted around the main thoroughfares. It was winter, still snowy, and tourism would be slow. But, my face was on the news, maybe not constantly, but most likely it would be daily.

I cursed myself for not taking the time to even consider the current news cycle. My desperation to ignore the severity of my situation had overridden simple logic.

I could only pray that the fearmongers that were the news stations had something else to prioritise.

I took out the almost illegible maps, hiked my bag higher on my shoulders and followed the road towards the pub that would be my meeting point. I was early, I thought.

Meeting point two. In the event that the hotel became unusable or too risky, they had told me to meet them at this pub. That was the original instruction. And the only additional part of the message Alex had received.

He hadn’t lied to me. There had been a voice message, and it was clear enough. One week, at midday, at meeting point two.

The back of the bar, that was the original plan from a month ago. The hotel had a room and a restaurant, or the pub had a booth towards the back of the bar.

The roads seemed busy. Local shops had enough customers spilling in and out for it to be a risk, although everyone was only going about their business, tucked up warm against the relentless cold. The sea of hats and scarves a blessing that allowed me to sink even deeper into my many layers.

I understood the choice for a public-ish meeting place – safe transition was a Remover guarantee so women didn’t walk into a trafficking ring – but still, even a few people felt like a risk too much right now. Apprehension began to spike as I worked my way towards the meeting point, an uneasy sweat breaking out over my body despite the chill when the pub came into view.

It was nothing less than you would expect from a traditional seaside village pub. A heavy sign swinging in the breeze, the alcove leading to a heavy wooden door. Then I was inside.

It wasn’t empty, nor was it full. Very few people looked up from their drinks, and I huffed at the assault of the warm air, a fire blazing in a hearth on the other side of the bar.

Searching keenly, I took a right, easing through the room and between the low tables, avoiding the patrons perched on stools, the thick layers, and the full duffel bag, an accident waiting to happen.

Nothing would be more inconvenient at this exact juncture than pouring someone’s drink into their lap and having to engage in an embarrassing conversation to apologise, and no doubt give someone a really good look at my face.

Finally, after what felt like an age, but was more likely less than a minute, I found a booth, tucked neatly in the furthest corner of the bar. The tables in this section were more sparsely occupied – the distance from the fire the likely cause – and I felt a brief second of relief.

Something going in my favour.

I approached the booth cautiously, anticipating it might be empty since I was fairly certain I was early. To my surprise, a large figure occupied it.

A heavy woollen coat lay beside him on the seat. His long legs almost reached out of the booth. Heavy-duty brown leather boots met jeans, and his head was bent, consuming something on a tablet. He had mousy blond hair that was neatly styled, but I couldn’t see his face.

“You’re early.” I recognised his voice from the single telephone call and his voicemail, devoid of warmth. “Sit down.”

My hesitation was momentary. I was in this now. No time for cold feet.

I slid my bag in ahead of me and took up the seat opposite him.

His attention remained focused on his device, but from here I could see his face. The sharp cut of his jaw and cheekbones, his brows scrunched. Tapping drew my focus to his fingers as they knocked a quick rhythm on the wooden surface.

I waited silently, observing the intricate tattoos that started at the ends of his fingers and worked their way up his hands and wrists along his forearms until they disappeared under the rolled-back sleeves of his knitted jumper.

His tapping ceased, and he flipped the tablet closed, his attention turning fully to me. I found myself ensnared in oil-blue eyes.

I shifted uncomfortably in place while he appraised me silently but clearly. He didn’t look impressed, and I bristled.

“You look different in person.” He broke the silence.

“People normally do,” I replied, trying and failing to sound as if I were not intimidated by him.

“I’ve asked our transport to come as soon as they can. Do you want something to drink?” he offered.

I really did. I nodded.

“Take off the coat. Everything about you screams ‘don’t look at me’, which will inevitably make everyone look.” His words sounded like a reprimand.

He stood looking down at me. “If you need to use the facilities, I suggest you do so soon. When we leave, we will not be stopping. Not for anything.”