Chapter Six Elara

Chapter Six

Elara

A jolt of pain snaps me awake.

My eyes fly open to golden light searing through the thin curtains. Disoriented, I lie still, heart pounding against my ribs. The quiet clop of horse hooves outside clashes with the steady rhythm of another’s breathing. He’s lying next to me—whatever his name is, because there’s no way I’m calling him my lord when we’re alone—his broad back facing my direction. His dark hair is tousled, a few rebellious strands curling against the nape of his neck.

My eyes narrow as yesterday comes roaring back. I enacted my plan and ran the first chance I got. Little did I know, the ribbon around my neck is more than a simple accessory. A sudden bolt, like lightning surging through my veins, is the last thing I remember before darkness swallowed me.

Bastard .

If I had a razor, I would shave off all that beautiful hair.

Ever so carefully, I slip from the bed. The floorboards creak, and I pause, watching him closely. He doesn’t stir. He must not expect me to be awake yet; otherwise, I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be on guard. His mistake, and my chance to try again.

Now that I know this damn ribbon is essentially a shock collar, my first order of business is to get rid of it.

I know he keeps a small knife in a sheath in his boot, but his clothes are near his side of the bed, and the floorboards over there are even more creaky than these. One misstep could ruin everything. I scan the room, searching for an alternative. Then I spot it—my saving grace—a glint of silver on the table near the window. Only a few feet away are the remnants of his dinner last night. The aromas of roasted meat and ale linger in the air, and my stomach grumbles. I ignore my hunger, focusing instead on the sharp knife lying on an empty plate.

Holding my breath, I tiptoe across the room and pick up the knife before glancing over my shoulder. He hasn’t stirred, his breathing slow and even.

I turn back to my task and slide the blade between the ribbon and my throat, angling it so the sharp edge presses against the silk. I apply a bit of pressure. It doesn’t budge.

Frowning, I press harder. Still nothing.

I try sawing, but the blade glides over the surface as if it’s coated in oil. My brows knit together, frustration sparking in my chest. I adjust my grip, carefully increasing the pressure. The blade so close to my neck makes me pause. Bleeding out on the floor is not the way I want to leave Towerfall.

Focus, Elara.

My heart pounds as I begin a steady sawing motion, and a bead of sweat traces a path down my temple.

Come on…

A large hand closes firmly around mine, imprisoning my wrist.

“Stop,” he growls, low and commanding.

A startled gasp escapes me as he presses me more firmly against the solid planes of his body. He’s hot, his warmth radiating through my dress. My breath catches, and a flare of electricity courses through me when the unmistakable hardness of his cock nestles against my lower back.

“The knife will not cut through the collar,” he says, his breath warm against my ear. “You will only succeed in slicing your throat.”

“Bullshit,” I seethe, trying to hide the flush creeping up my neck. “I watched you use a knife on it yesterday, and it worked just fine.”

In the blink of an eye, he disarms me, the knife slipping effortlessly from my fingers. Before I can react, he spins me around. We’re now chest to chest, nothing separating us but the fabric of my skirt. One of his large hands pins my wrists together behind my back, while the other wraps around the front of my throat, his thumb pressing under my chin to force my gaze upward.

“It only worked because I wanted it to.” His steely eyes lock on mine. “A pawn collar is infused with magick connected to the owner. If you stray too far from me without my permission, you will be incapacitated. If you try to harm me, it will do the same. The only way this comes off your pretty neck is if I wish it so.” He lowers his face until his lips are a mere breath away from mine, his gaze never wavering. “And I do not.”

Glaring daggers at him, I spit out, “You could have told me that yesterday.”

“We made a deal—you help me, and then I help you. It is not my fault you went back on your word, naughty nymph.”

“Whatever you say, Gary ,” I snap. “Now would you mind stepping back so your erection doesn’t keep prodding my stomach?”

He releases me and turns away, but not before I catch the dusky rose coloring his cheeks. “It is an affliction of the early hours. I was not trying to seduce you.”

His description of morning wood is amusing, and the fact that he immediately put distance between us helps to take my boiling anger down to a simmer, but that’s the extent of my goodwill. I’m still furious my second escape attempt was thwarted and that I have no choice but to do as he wants, delaying my search for a way home.

“Good,” I say, plunking into a chair and ripping off a hunk of stale bread. “I’m not the type who gets off on being manhandled anyway.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers a Shakespearean warning about protesting too much.

He pauses pulling on his shirt, his gaze sliding back to me. For several eternal seconds, he studies me, eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. I force myself to hold his stare, determined not to be the one who looks away first. My chin lifts defiantly, an arched brow daring him to say something.

A slow, smug half grin tugs at one corner of his mouth, revealing that single dimple in his right cheek. It’s as if I’ve just confirmed something for him, though I can’t fathom what. Without a word, he resumes dressing.

The silence between us stretches. I tear off a piece of bread, chewing it with more force than necessary. The man is easily the most infuriating beast I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.

“Be ready to leave,” he says briskly, breaking the silence. “We have much to do today.”

“Can’t wait,” I reply sarcastically, rolling my eyes as I toss the remaining crumbs onto the plate.

He moves toward the door, his booted steps echoing softly against the worn wooden floorboards. Just before he reaches the door, he pauses. He glances back at me, his gaze meeting mine. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his stormy gray eyes.

“My name,” he says quietly. “It’s Ronan Greve.”

I cough, nearly choking on my mouthful of bread at his unexpected confession. He’s been adamant about keeping his identity a secret. Now, he’s trusting me with his name. I suppose it could be an alias, but I don’t think so. As a clinical psychologist, I’m excellent at reading people. His eyes are sincere, absent of any guile or deception. This feels like an olive branch.

I nod and offer him a small smile. “Thank you for telling me, Ronan.”

A subtle softness settles between us, and the tension eases just enough to make the cramped room feel a little less suffocating.

And then he ruins it.

“But you will refer to me as ‘my lord’ when not in this room. Do not forget.”

The fragile truce shatters, the fleeting warmth evaporating like morning mist.

I stand and brush the crumbs from my dress. “After you, my lord,” I say, the title laced with sarcasm he annoyingly chooses to ignore.

He opens the door and steps into the hallway, and I follow a few paces behind. As we descend the narrow staircase, the murmur of early patrons filters up from the tavern below.

I stare at the back of Ronan’s head and make myself feel better by fantasizing about shaving off his eyebrows as well. Stifling a laugh, I press my fingers to my lips and continue plotting my next move.

* * *

Ronan leads Sabre, whose name was offered without any difficulty, along a winding path through the countryside until we arrive at a small cottage nestled among rolling hills. The thatched roof and ivy-covered stone walls give it a quaint charm that might be comforting under different circumstances. An older woman with silver-streaked hair and kind but sharp eyes stands at the door, wiping her hands on an apron.

“This is Sally,” Ronan says as he helps me dismount. “She used to serve one of the noble families. She’ll train you to be an exemplary pawn so you can pass the trial.”

Sally nods curtly. “We haven’t much time. Let’s get started.”

If I thought my previous waitressing experience was going to make this easy, I was sorely mistaken. Serving at what is essentially a high-society dinner party in Towerfall is nothing like slinging beers and apps at a TGI Fridays.

Sally ushers me into a spacious room cleared of furniture. “We’ll begin with the basics,” she announces, handing me a large, round tray. “During the mingling hours, you’ll serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres,” she explains. “But not with your hands or arms.”

I frown. “Then how am I supposed to carry the tray?”

She demonstrates by placing the tray gracefully on top of her head, her back impeccably straight. “Like this. You may use one hand to steady it, but only on the side away from the guests. We mustn’t ruin the aesthetic or impede their access.”

I lift a brow and cock my chin. “You want me to balance this on my head while walking around a crowded room?”

Sally clasps her hands and nods, but the tray doesn’t even move. “Precisely.” She hands me the golden platter with a smile. “Now, your turn.”

Taking a deep breath, I lift the tray onto my head. It wobbles as I struggle to find my center of balance. My hands shoot up to steady it, and Sally clicks her tongue.

“Elbows in, back straight. Imagine a string pulling you up from the crown of your head.”

I adjusted my posture, and the tray steadies slightly.

“Better. Now walk.”

I take one tentative step, then another. The tray teeters, but I manage to keep it—and myself—upright. After a few laps around the room, my neck and shoulders start to ache.

“Good.” Sally claps. “Now we’ll add some weight.”

She places cups of water on the tray, starting with two and increasing steadily until it’s covered. The added weight presses down, and every muscle in my body tenses to keep everything balanced.

For hours, I practice walking back and forth, turning carefully, switching the hand I use to steady the tray. Sweat rolls down my back, but I begin to find a rhythm. Pride and confidence swell within me, and I make the mistake of smiling.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Sally warns, reading my thoughts. “Next, we’ll practice serving.”

“Wait, what have I been doing?” I ask, catching my breath.

“Walking.” She gives me another thin smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Now you need to learn how to present the tray to guests.”

She swiftly removes the tray from my head. I wince and pinch my eyes shut, expecting the glasses to spill and water to rain down. When nothing happens, I open my eyes, and Sally has the tray perfectly balanced, not a drop spilled.

“When a guest beckons for you to stop, you must slowly lean forward by bending at the waist until your torso is parallel with the floor.” She demonstrates, rolling the tray smoothly along the back of her head to rest flat against her upper back. “This allows them to take what they wish with ease.”

My jaw hangs open. “You want me to be a human table?”

Her nostrils flare as she takes in a deep breath. “If you wish to call it so,” she replies coolly. “Now it’s your turn.”

With the tray loaded and balanced on my head, I attempt to mimic her movements. I bend forward, but the moment I do, the tray tilts. Cups slide, and before I can attempt to catch them, my dress is soaked.

From the corner of the room, Ronan observes with his arms crossed. “Again,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

When Sally’s back is turned, I shoot him a withering glare before I grit my teeth and try again. And again. And again. Each attempt ends the same way—with me drenched and frustrated and Ronan’s infuriatingly calm voice urging me to repeat the process.

By the end of the day, exhaustion weighs down my limbs. I haven’t managed a single successful attempt at the “human table,” but I have managed to drown myself over and over again. I groan after my last attempt, muscles I didn’t know I had screaming in protest.

Luckily, Sally finally relents. “That’s enough for today. We’ll resume at first light.”

“Great,” I mutter under my breath.

She gives me a curt nod before exiting the room, leaving me alone with Ronan. My shoulders slump as I sink onto a wooden bench, peeling the wet fabric away from my clammy skin. All I want is to soak in a tub of water hot enough to scald me, to wash away the aches and the humiliation, to magickally be transported back home.

“You did better than most do on their first day.” Ronan approaches, offering me his hand.

I glare at his outstretched hand. “Spare me the platitudes.” I push myself up without his help. “This whole process is ridiculous.”

“It’s necessary if you’re to pass as a pawn at the festival.”

I meet his gaze, frustration boiling over. “A little empathy wouldn’t kill you.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “This isn’t easy, but it is important.”

“Important to you ,” I snap. “Let’s not pretend this is about me.”

Silence stretches taut between us. Finally, he exhales and turns away. “Let’s return to the inn so you can rest.”

By the time we reach the inn, darkness has settled. I brace myself for another night of zero privacy, resigned to the disappointment of only being able to remove my outermost layers to dry overnight. But as we enter the room, I stop short. A privacy screen now stands between the copper tub and the rest of the space.

Surprise flickers through me. I glance at Ronan, who avoids my gaze and busies himself with removing his cloak. I don’t know if he requested it or if the innkeeper is psychic, but I want to weep with relief.

Without a word, I grab a towel and slip behind the screen. Steam rises from the tub, and the scent of lavender wafts up when I ease myself into the water. A sigh escapes my lips as the heat soothes my aching muscles. I sink lower until the water laps at my chin. I wish I could dissolve into it entirely. Instead, I stay submerged until the water cools and my fingers wrinkle like prunes.

Emerging refreshed, I dress in a clean chemise and settle at the small table. Dinner waits for me—a simple stew and a hunk of crusty bread. I eat in silence, washing it down with a mug of honeyed ale. Ronan moves around the room quietly, the unspoken agreement to avoid conversation hanging between us.

The thought of sharing the bed with him—even if we kept to opposite sides—feels like more than I can handle tonight. I need space to sort through the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling in my head. Sleeping on the floor isn’t exactly comfortable, but it offers a buffer, a way to maintain some semblance of control.

I make a makeshift bed on the floor with a pillow and blanket, deliberately placing it as far from his side as possible. The wooden planks are hard beneath me, but exhaustion dulls the discomfort and quickly pulls me into a dreamless sleep.

Day two dawns with a pale-yellow glow seeping in through the curtains. After we dress and have a quick breakfast, we arrive at the cottage.

Ronan dismounts from Sabre, speaking to me for the first time since yesterday when we were at Sally’s. “Remember, the collar will harm you if you attempt to leave.”

Keeping my back to Sally, I offer him a saccharine smile. “Yes, my lord,” I say sweetly and flip him the bird. His eyes narrow ever so slightly before a smirk tugs at his lips. And then the bastard winks at me. Without another word, he mounts Sabre and rides off, the horse’s hooves kicking up dust as they disappear down the path.

“Let’s begin,” Sally says, drawing my attention back to the day’s torture.

The morning passes in a blur of balancing acts and repeated failures. By midday, I have a breakthrough and a handful of shaky successes under my belt. Trays remain upright, cups stay unspilled, and I start to feel a glimmer of hope.

When Ronan returns in the afternoon, Sally leaves to run errands, but even I know she needs a break. Ronan stands across the room as I practice, and I can’t help but glance his way, seeking some kind of acknowledgment. He simply watches me intently while I execute the serving motion, his expression unreadable.

“Not bad,” he remarks flatly.

I want to smack him. “Not bad?” I echo, frustration seeping into my voice.

“You’ve improved.” He raises a dark brow. “A bit.”

“You could at least pretend to be impressed.”

He leans casually against the doorframe. “Would you prefer empty praise?”

“I’d prefer a little basic human decency.”

A faint smile plays on his lips. “I wasn’t aware you held me in such regard.”

I scowl. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The rest of the afternoon devolves into a battle of barbed comments and thinly veiled insults. He counters each of my jabs with infuriating calm, which only fuels my irritation. By the time we return to the inn, I’m seething.

Stepping into our room, I notice another new addition—a bedroll laid out neatly where I’d slept on the floor the night before. It’s thicker than the blanket I’d used, a plush pillow resting at one end. Again, Ronan doesn’t offer an explanation, and I don’t ask. Exhaustion wins over curiosity.

As I settle onto the bedroll, Ronan’s distinct scent—a mix of leather, steel, and sunlight—envelops me. I breathe it into the bottom of my lungs, a surprising comfort washing over me. My muscles relax into the padding, and sleep claims me almost instantly.

Days three and four blur together in a haze of relentless training and simmering tension. Each morning, Ronan drops me off at the cottage before disappearing on whatever mysterious errands occupy his time. Sally pushes me harder, introducing new tasks as soon as I perfect the one before.

My movements become more fluid, muscle memory taking over as my body adapts. Balancing the tray feels almost natural now, and I navigate the mock ballroom without incident.

Sally departs each afternoon as Ronan returns to observe from a distance. His occasional unsolicited advice and reminders of the stakes looming over us are met with thinly veiled hostility, a lot of cursing, and plenty of telling him to go to hell.

On the fifth and final day, everything clicks into place. I perform each task flawlessly and with the grace and poise expected of a seasoned pawn, my body finally used to the movements.

Sally watches me effortlessly balance the tray as I glide across the room. “Well done, Elara. You’ve exceeded my expectations.”

A swell of pride warms me. “Thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful.

Ronan steps forward, arms crossed over his chest. “Impressive.”

I set the tray on a nearby table and tilt my chin. “Was that a compliment?”

“An observation.”

“High praise coming from you.”

He almost smiles. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

As we prepare to leave, Sally pulls me into a brief embrace. “Remember what I’ve taught you, and you’ll do just fine.”

“I won’t forget,” I assure her.

Outside, the sun dips low on the horizon, casting golden light across the hills. Ronan helps me mount Sabre, his hands firm on my waist. A subtle warmth blooms where his fingers briefly press against me, but I quickly dismiss it. We set off toward the inn, the comfortable silence between us broken only by the rhythmic clopping of Sabre’s hooves and the distant chorus of evening birdsong.

Just as the first stars begin to shimmer in the twilight sky, Ronan breaks the silence. “You did well these past few days.”

I glance back at him, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Another observation?”

“A fact.”

“Careful, Ronan. People might think you actually care.”

A comfortable silence settles between us once more as the inn comes into view, warm light spilling from its windows like a beacon. We reach the stables, and Ronan helps me dismount. This time, I’m more than aware of the strength in his hands as they linger at my waist before he steps back.

The soft glow of lanterns guides our way as we walk toward the inn, and a sudden wave of homesickness washes over me. I think of Stella, probably sitting in our favorite tea shop, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, wondering where I am. Is she worried? Has she reported me missing? Or does time move differently here? Maybe no time has passed at all back home.

Uncertainty coils tight in my chest, a knot of fear and longing that I can’t untangle.

What if I never get back?

“Are you all right?” Ronan’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. His eyes search mine, concern etched in the slight furrow of his brow.

I wrap my arms around myself. “Do you ever wonder if—” I stop, unsure if I want to reveal the depth of my fears.

“If what?”

I shake my head, offering a small laugh. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t press further, but his gaze lingers, and I wonder if he can see through the partial lie.

Inside, the atmosphere between us has shifted subtly, the sharp edges of our previous interactions dulling. Between the emotional high of finally nailing my role and the physical toll from the week’s relentless training, I can barely keep my eyes open. I practically sleepwalk up the creaking wooden stairs to our room.

I kick off my shoes and plop down on the bed. Sighing, I fall back on the mattress with my legs dangling off the end. “I’ve never been more exhausted in my life,” I say, letting my eyelids flutter closed.

Absently, I listen to Ronan’s steps as he crosses the room, the thud of his boots hitting the floor, the rustle of fabric as he shrugs out of his cloak. The subtle scents of leather and steel fill the air, and I take a deep breath.

“I’m not moving from this spot until the tub is filled,” I say, my voice muffled by the pillow.

“I will wake you when it’s ready.”

A faint smile tugs at my lips.

God, I love the deep timbre of his voice.

Wait, did I just think that? I hope I didn’t say it out loud. No, I’m sure I didn’t.

“You won’t have to wake me, because I’m not going to sleep,” I insist, fighting the heaviness pulling at my eyelids.

“If you say so, naughty nymph.” He chuckles softly.

His words fade into the background as a warm drowsiness envelops me. The sounds of him moving about become distant, like echoes in a dream. The last thing I remember is the gentle flicker of the lantern’s light dancing behind my closed eyelids before sleep claims me entirely.