Chapter Four: Stranger in a Storm
"Yes, if you don't mind... could you tell me which direction leads to the nearest port?" Annelise asked politely, rainwater dripping from her clothes.
The young man glanced past her toward the horizon. "Just follow the fence line," he said, pointing. "About three miles that way is the port to Friet."
"Where are you headed?" he added curiously.
Annelise hesitated. "Anywhere," she answered.
He raised a brow but didn't press. "Well, then you'd better leave now. Another storm is about to hit. If you're lucky, you'll catch the boat out—" he checked his watch—"in ten minutes."
"What?" Her eyes widened. "Thank you!" she called out, already scrambling back onto Slyder.
But just as she lifted herself into the saddle, the rain returned—heavy, fast, relentless. The sky darkened in an instant, thunder rumbling overhead.
She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed, shoulders sagging as water streamed down her face. "Go, Slyder," she whispered.
"Wait!" the young man's voice called out over the wind. "It's dangerous to ride in weather like this. Why don't you come inside—just until it passes?"
She turned, confused. He was now standing in the downpour himself, his once-pristine book sagging in his hand, soaked and forgotten. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and still he looked at her with genuine concern.
What is he planning? her mind screamed. He's too nice. Maybe he's a serial killer. Or a cultist. Or a nobleman with a dark secret—maybe he lures girls in and then— she stopped herself.
No, no... He's too young. But then again, age doesn't stop psychopathic tendencies.
Her thoughts spiraled like the storm above—chaotic and absurd. Every thriller novel she'd ever read came to life in her mind. Yet despite every warning sign her imagination threw at her, minutes later she was inside the manor, towel-wrapped, a warm cup of coffee in her hands, staring suspiciously at the steam rising from it.
Dumb, dumb, dumb. What if I die here before I even taste freedom? What if he's a human trafficker? He's rich. Rich people can afford to be anything. But wait—this manor belongs to the extended royal family, doesn't it? Maybe it's rented now... or sold? Or—oh stars, what am I doing?
"You still cold?" he asked.
She snapped out of her mental spiral. "No, thank you. I'm fine."
Before he could respond, another voice entered the room. "Why are you up this early, Finian?"
A lanky man in rumpled pajamas shuffled in, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Annelise stiffened.
Oh no. This is it. The accomplice. The man in charge. I will be a victim before I ever become an individual.
"It's eight in the morning, Rodrick," Finian said, shaking his head.
Rodrick blinked at Annelise, then gave Finian a lazy grin. "And it's been one day into your vacation and you've already brought someone home?"
Annelise's cheeks flared with panic and embarrassment. No no no—Rodrick? Her thoughts scrambled. Wait. Prince Rodrick?
Finian groaned. "Um. No. I'm—"