“I fucking hate Rayse,” I tell Paul, relaxing into the chair. “I feel like he exists to make my life and Desmond's miserable. We're trying so hard, and he just keeps throwing shit at us, you know?”
“I know there's always been a strong rivalry between the siblings,” Paul says with a distant look in his eyes. “Always trying to one up one another. Even when it came to the raids, they'd try their best to get the most successful results.”
Again, I feel a kick to my heart, as if one of the horses had back-heeled me in the stables. Time's draining outside. Light is fading gradually, and it'll be dark in perhaps an hour or more. Had I really been in this place with Paul for so long? Where is Morgan and Danny? Usually they'd be on my ass if they couldn't find me for too long, or if they didn't have confirmation of where I was.
I should be heading back to Desmond soon. He promised me something tonight. But I'm not even sure if I still want it. I'm a little woozy from drinking, but not bad at all, as I've been careful with my consumption.
“No one would blame you if you ran away,” Paul says then. “Or if you felt you were being treated badly, and wanted to find fun elsewhere.”
“Mm,” I say, before my unease forces me to go on alert. Paul's face, previously so warm and understanding, now has a strange glint to it.
“No one would blame you, either, if you were to be found in the company of other men. Men who don't care about the history between your clans. Real men who know what to do.” He smiles then, but it feels more sinister than before. He reaches out and lays a hand on my knee, and all my fears come crashing together.
Oh no.
I'm in this shed alone with him.
He lured me away from Morgan.
He keeps making offhand comments that make me sick to be here, surrounded among the Claymores.
“I can treat you right,” he whispers, hand sliding up my thigh. “I'll keep the other servants off your back. I know Ethel – I can make your life so much easier. All you need to do is a little favor for me.”
I stand up abruptly, slapping his hand away. “No, Paul. I don't want this. I'm going to go now –”
“I thought you did,” Paul says, as I advance to the door. “You keep flirting with me. You keep looking at me in that sexual way. It's obvious you're interested.”
“No,” I yelp. “It really isn't.” I'm looking at him sexually? What? I attempt to open the door, and gasp when it doesn't open.
“I can make you feel good.” His hand touches my waist, and I snarl.
“Get away! I'm not interested in you! I'm married!”
The lust in his expression fades, boiling over in anger instead. “What's wrong with you? Don't you want this?”
“I just said no!” I rattle at the door and yell, but he lunges at me, pressing me against it.
“You were supposed to be easy,” he says, genuinely baffled. As if I was a coin slot he'd just inserted a quarter into, and now he wondered why I wasn't putting out.
His words sound too much like Rayse. Desmond was right, I think desperately. “Did Rayse put you up to this?” I gasp, squirming against him as he attempts to pin me in place. “Was your friendship a lie?”
He pauses. “Why on earth would I want to be friends with you? You're as pathetic as they come. Rayse was right about that. It's not him behind this, though.” He smirks.
I scream again, thrashing, hand grabbing for something. Anything at all. It rests on a sliver of wood propped against the side of the shed. Firewood. Splinters dig into my hand as I beat it against him, screaming. He curses, trying to avoid the blows and get a stranglehold on me, but I keep beating until he slumps on the ground, bleeding and unconscious. I fumble for the key from his body, and stumble out the shed.
No one was around to hear me. My heart's hammering fast, disgusted at how soundly I was manipulated. They were right. Paul never liked me. He just wanted to charm himself into my pants, except he failed pretty fucking badly at that.
That's it.
I’m done with it all. I can’t be here any longer. I can’t suffer these transgressions against my soul. They hate me. Paul’s a liar and almost rapist, planted to twist me against my husband and the house, all while pretending to be my friend. Ethel would see me starved and beaten if she could, and Rayse, well – that’s a man prone to torture first, killing later.
I head inside, passing one servant who says nothing. Making it to our rooms, I locate my sash and Hartson jacket, hidden previously from Ethel's sight so she wouldn't attempt to burn them. No one tries to stop me as I leave the rooms and head straight for the stables.
The lack of resilience feels planned, almost. Perhaps they have guests in the house. The stables are empty as I go for the horse with the best temperament, a fine bay with a noble arch to his neck and head, and prancing hooves. I saddle him up, which takes a minute, tighten the straps, then haul myself on. Nudging the horse towards the trees outside the estates, I urge it into a trot, then a canter.
Out of here at last.
Emotions burn within as we stumble through the thick copse of trees, heading towards the mountain trail that I know curves around and eventually leads towards the Hartson borders. I’ve never trekked along this more than once, since the first time was under heavy escort to the Claymore estates. Steep ravines line some of the pathway, though metal and wooden barriers are placed along the edges to prevent any wayward accidents. With the horse I’ve stolen, I can make good time. They probably won’t know I’m gone yet, and I think I can make the end of the trail before visibility worsens, as it’s a clear sky, and the path is lit on occasion from nearby farms and huts. Other than those, it’s a lonely path, and already there’s a bite of cold settling over me. I tie my hair back with a bandana, tucking it out of view. I’m glad to be wearing my clan colors again. I’d missed the jacket. It once belonged to my grandmother, who said it belonged to hers...
The horse’s hooves clack against the concrete, and more forest and ravine stretch ahead of me in the distance. People used to drive through this pass in their hundreds every day, back when everything was accessible to everyone. My grandfather liked to say that we should have owned this part of the world, but it was stolen from us by the Claymores. Stolen just like how they stole everything else.
I wonder if Desmond will launch a search party once he realizes I’m gone. I wonder if he cares enough to miss me. Guilt squirms within, remembering what he promised, and knowing this will be a betrayal. Running away like this is nothing short of a death sentence to our clans. But if I make it back home, if I tell my father that Desmond’s a good man, that it’s just his rotten relatives being the issue… if I can just explain to the Graves that I tried, and so did Desmond – there’ll be a way out of this.
The more I trot the horse over the asphalt, drawing further away from the estates, the more I know that I can’t do this. I don’t want to go back, but I can’t press on forward, either. I’m just lying to myself at this rate.
Oh, I wish I was still at home. I wish I hadn’t crossed into Graves territory just to try out some stupid drink. If I’d never met Desmond, how simple would my life be right now? Claymores enemies. Hartsons heroes. The world as it should be. Not a world where I might be seriously falling for a man my family are conditioned to hate.