Annabelle had thought him a vision when she viewed him from a distance, a rugged ghost framed by steam and fire. But here, with only a few inches of soot-heavy air between them, the reality of him was an assault on her senses. The heat radiating from his skin, the smell of charcoal and iron, and the sheer, solid mass of him took her breath away. Her voice, usually so sharp and refined, vanished entirely.
"Peter, you were supposed to be assisting the lady, not letting her lose a finger," Miguel said. His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very floorboards beneath Annabelle's feet.
"I didn't know she was going to touch it," Peter said staring at the floor
Miguel stepped into Annabelle's personal space, his presence overwhelming the small shop. He reached out, his large, scarred hand closing around the metal piece she had blindly grabbed. His skin was dark against the silver of the blade. "For a deadly weapon like this, Miss, you hold it by the handle. Never the edge."
He was explaining the balance of the steel, his thumb tracing the hilt, but Annabelle was a thousand miles away. Her gaze was a frantic traveler, wandering from the dark intensity of his eyes to the sharp, noble bridge of his nose, finally settling on the movement of his lips as he spoke. She felt a traitorous heat creep up her neck, staining her cheeks a vivid, undeniable crimson.
"How can someone be this good-looking?"
The thought slipped past her lips before she could catch it, a soft exhale of pure honesty. The young boy, Peter, let out a sudden, sharp bark of laughter that echoed through the quiet shop.
"You're certainly not the first to say so, Miss," Peter chimed in, his eyes dancing with mischief.
The spell shattered. Annabelle's face burned with a fresh wave of embarrassment. She felt like a fool, a high-born girl caught staring at a worker like a starstruck child. She spun on her heel, her emerald silk skirts hissing against the dirt floor as she moved to flee.
"Miss!"
Miguel's voice stopped her at the threshold. She turned back, her heart hammering against her ribs. He was holding out the metal piece, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or curiosity—shone in his dark eyes.
"You almost forgot this," he said as he handed her the metal.
She stepped forward to take it, her fingers brushing against his for a fleeting, electric second. "Annabelle," she whispered, her courage returning in a sudden, sharp burst. "You can call me Annabelle."
The ride home was a blur. Sara spent the entire journey eyeing the wicked, double-edged metal in Annabelle's lap, muttering about "strange tastes" and "dangerous hobbies." But Annabelle didn't hear her. She clutched the cold iron to her chest, her thumb tracing the spot where Miguel's hand had rested.
When they reached the manor, she bolted for her room, locking the door and throwing herself onto the silk coverlets of her bed. She held the metal up to the moonlight, a secret treasure. It was rough, sharp, and dangerous—just like him. The cold weight of it in her hand was a strange comfort, a stark contrast to the suffocating politeness of her life.
"Oh, Miguel," she breathed, a reckless smile spreading across her face.
The encounter had stirred something within her, a rebellious flicker against the gilded cage of her expected future. Her parents planned to marry her off to Brent, a man she did not know and did not love. The thought of being tied to him filled her with dread.
But Miguel... he was a different world entirely. Rough, real, and utterly outside of her parents' carefully constructed plans. A dangerous idea began to take root in her mind, a whisper of defiance against the inevitable. What if she could find a way to forge her own path, a way that led far from Brent and closer to the raw, untamed possibility that Miguel represented?