The man folded his arms, clearly frustrated with having to explain what must have seemed obvious. "Lady, I found you lying here," he said, gesturing at the leaves and dirt that still clung to her skin.
She frowned and took a cautious step forward, eyes scanning the surrounding trees, unsure whether she was in a mystical forest or a very elaborate abandoned backyard. "Just out of curiosity," she said, raising one eyebrow, "where here is?"
"Here," he answered flatly, "covered in leaves and a little bit of bird poop."
Her nose wrinkled in horror. "Oh my God! Where?" She immediately started poking at her face and hair, sniffing delicately. "Get it off! Get it off!" she hissed, trying to pinpoint the exact spot where the offending poop might be hiding. "Bird poop is like the herpes of outdoor stains. It just never fully goes away."
Before she could launch into a full-on panic attack, the man's large hand gently grasped her wrist, steadying her.
He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket—a detail she noticed only because it screamed old money and carefully wiped at her cheek. The touch was surprisingly tender.
His eyes locked onto hers, searching deep. The intensity made her breath hitch, and for a moment, all she could think was, Look at this gorgeous specimen of a man, and here I am—covered in sand and shit.
Her cheeks flushed hot, partly from embarrassment, partly from the unexpected flutter in her chest as their gazes held.
"There." The man said it simply.
Lyra blinked, her cheek still tingling from the brief, almost reverent touch. "Thanks," she muttered, rubbing the opposite side of her face just to feel somewhat in control again. "So again—who are you and where exactly am I?"
"I am Elias Bridge," he replied, as if the name should come with a drumroll or a herald with a trumpet. "You are in my estate."
Lyra's brain stuttered at the word estate. "Okay…" she said slowly, processing. "Estate. Got it. Fancy word for land that probably has its own name and decorative fountains." She paused, gesturing around at the towering trees.
Elias didn't react. That was fine. She was great at filling silences.
"Well, if you could just kindly point me toward the nearest exit, I'll be on my merry way. Thank you very much, Mr. Bridge." She gave him a little salute for good measure and turned as if she knew where she was going, which she absolutely did not.
But Elias made no move. His gaze was firmly fixed on her.
"Do you intend to go out on the streets dressed like that?" he asked, eyebrows lifted with the precision of a man accustomed to giving orders—and being obeyed.
Lyra froze mid-step and looked down at herself. Her oversized sleep shirt, which had ridden up just a tad too high. Beneath it, a pair of cotton shorts she wouldn't wear to a Zoom call, much less a fashion-forward universe. Still. "What? This?" she asked, tugging the hem down an inch with futile dignity. "There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing. I mean, people wear less to the gym. Or the beach."
Elias tilted his head, clearly unimpressed by her nonsense. "I think not," he said. "Come. I'll find you something that covers you."
"Covers me?" Lyra repeated, as her inner feminist stirred. "Excuse me—are you one of those men? You know, the 'cover yourself up because it's improper' types?" She planted her hands on her hips, the shirt riding up again in rebellion. "Do you also believe elbows are seductive? Should I wear a bonnet too? Maybe a chastity belt while we're at it?"
Elias looked entirely unbothered by her sarcasm. "You're dressed like you escaped a brothel at dawn."
"Well, I'll have you know, Mr., I am a big girl. I decide what I wear, how I wear it, and where I wear it. I could walk the streets in my underwear if I want to, and that's called freedom."
"I'm afraid you'll be instantly considered a lunatic after a few feet on these streets," Elias said dryly, eyes scanning her ensemble again.
Lyra placed a hand on her hip. "Well, at least I'll be a fashion-forward lunatic," she muttered. "You know, misunderstood, mysterious, chic."
But Elias wasn't even listening anymore—not really. The more she spoke, the more the truth pressed on him: this wasn't her. Not his Lirae. Not the woman whose name he'd whispered through broken prayers and cursed dreams. But gods, the resemblance. Same high cheekbones, same lips—full and always on the verge of a smirk. And those eyes. He could drown in those eyes if he let himself. Except this woman—Lyra, as she kept saying—wasn't quiet or poised. She had spoken roughly a million words in under five minutes.
Still, the voice was eerily similar. Sharp with humor, warm when it curled into sarcasm. He found himself memorizing it in spite of himself.
Lyra huffed and folded her arms. "Look, I'm already emotionally disoriented, vaguely bird-poop-scented. I just want to go home. Exit, please."
Elias shrugged, turning smoothly on his heel. "Sure. This way."
She followed him, feet crunching on the gravel path as they walked through what looked like a botanical garden designed by someone with a god complex. The estate was a fantasy-land of stone fountains, marble archways, and rose gardens that smelled faintly like royalty.
But the real jaw-dropper came when they passed the mansion. Scratch that. Mansion was an insult. This was a castle with a skincare routine. Gleaming towers. Ornate balconies.
"Holy Game of Thrones," she muttered, eyes wide. "Do you live here or just squat when the queen's out of town?"
Elias arched a brow. "I am the queen."
"What?"
"I'm joking," he said, although his voice didn't sound nearly amused enough for it to be a joke. "Mostly."
By the time they reached the front gate, Lyra was starting to feel like she'd been dropped inside a period movie scene. Elias gave a nod to the guards—actual guards with spears and polished boots and they stepped aside, opening the wrought-iron gates with a creak of exaggerated importance.