How Not To Abduct a Banshee

Episode 2

Lord Fontaine’s thoughts screamed unbidden into her mind, loud and panicked. Tame? Break? Forget that—she’s more like a rabid dog that needs to be put down! Nothing’s worth this! That Banshee is insane!

The words hit Caelin like a slap, and what little calm she had managed evaporated. All she knew was rage—a deep, boiling fury that erupted like a volcano. She moved without thinking, flipping onto her back and driving her knees into Aaron’s stomach with the force of a catapult. He let out a startled yelp as he went airborne, landing several feet away in a graceless heap.

By the time Aaron hit the ground, Caelin was already on her feet. A knife had appeared in her hand as if summoned by sheer will, and her eyes gleamed with murderous intent. Before the guards could comprehend the situation, she darted across the courtyard, moving with the grace and speed of the predator she was recently.

Before the other guards could react, she was across the space, her blade aimed for his black heart.

Caelin’s blade was mere inches from his chest when her father’s voice thundered through the chaos like a c***k of lightning.

“CAELIN. STOP.”

The command hit her like a physical blow. She froze, every muscle in her body locking up as if turned to stone. No matter how strong or enraged, no one disobeyed a Banshee’s voice—least of all when it came from Lord Arlie himself.

Unable to halt her momentum, Caelin twisted awkwardly, throwing herself into a clumsy roll to avoid face-planting into the dirt. She skidded to a stop, her knife clattering uselessly to the ground.

Aaron, meanwhile, had dusted himself off and was approaching with the cautious optimism of someone who’d survived worse.

He held his suit jacket out at arm’s length, part shield, part peace offering, his expression caught between resignation and exasperation. “Here,” he said, avoiding eye contact with anything below her neckline. “You’re going to want this.”

Caelin muttered something unintelligible as she snatched the jacket and slid her arms into it as nonchalantly. The courtyard fell into a stilted silence as everyone present suddenly found something very interesting to look at that wasn’t Lord Arlie’s now semi-clothed, raging daughter.

Lord Fontaine, who had somehow avoided fainting, remained frozen in place, his face as pale as freshly fallen snow. Lord Arlie took one look at the scene—the scattered guards, the knife on the ground, and his furious, disheveled daughter—and sighed heavily.

“This,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “is why we can’t have nice things.”

Lord Arlie raised a hand to silence the mounting protests and whispers around him. “I have no idea what’s going on here,” he declared, his voice calm and measured—though the twitch in his left eye betrayed his true feelings. ‘I have a very good idea, and I’m certain my daughter orchestrated at least 90% of it.’

“But whatever has transpired…” he continued aloud, pausing for dramatic effect. ‘…I don’t want to know. I’m begging the gods not to make me know.’ “...I believe it is now over.” ‘Please, let it be over. For the love of sanity.’

Lord Arlie shifted his gaze to Lord Fontaine, who was still trembling like a frightened leaf in a stiff breeze. “I would appreciate it,” he said, his tone dripping with cool civility, “if you would vacate the Arlie premises immediately. My daughter has made her opinion of this match abundantly clear.” ‘You have about three minutes before I reconsider and let her finish what she started.’

Lord Fontaine’s face paled even further, turning a shade of white usually reserved for ghosts and chalk. His panicked inner thoughts screamed, ‘Oh god, he’s going to kill me! They’re all going to kill me! What was my family thinking, sending me here?’

To his credit—or perhaps out of sheer self-preservation—Lord Fontaine stiffened his spine. He offered a curt bow that dripped with fake dignity, though the way he shuffled toward the exit suggested he was moments away from a full sprint. His hapless guards formed a loose, haphazard escort, looking more like sheep following a slightly braver sheep.

Lord Arlie waited until Lord Fontaine was safely out of sight before letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He turned back to Caelin, who stood glaring at him with fire in her eyes and Aaron’s oversized suit jacket hanging awkwardly off her shoulders.

“Caelin, I don’t want to deal with this now,” he said wearily, dismissing her with a wave of his hand, trying to alleviate his rising blood pressure. “I’ll see you at dinner. By then, I expect to be calmer. And at that point, I will have chosen your tie for you, and that will be the end of this.”

Without waiting for her response, Lord Arlie turned and strode away, his patience clearly spent. His departure left a stunned silence in his wake, broken only by the quiet rustle of the wind.

Caelin pulled the suit jacket tighter around herself, her mind racing. s**t. This was not how she’d envisioned things going. Where was the grand moment of triumph? The victorious roar? The satisfied smirk as she sent Fontaine running back to his pathetic estate with his tail between his legs?

Instead, she’d gotten a mild scolding and a looming threat. She glared after her father’s retreating back. This was not the result she’d been hoping for.

Caelin slumped further into the plush leather seat, her head resting against the cool glass of the car window as she plotted her escape. Her eyes darted to the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see one of her father’s guards tailing her, just in case she tried something “rash.” As if they could stop me, she thought bitterly.

She attempted one last deep breath, an exercise she’d learned at the Academy that had apparently worked for every other assassin in training. Not her, though. The slow inhale felt more like choking on air, and the exhale only made her want to punch something. So much for mindfulness.

She should have known that her mother’s generous offer of a spa day was only a trick to keep her out of the way, and force her to dress in a gown that was as close as one could get to a straightjacket, and still be socially acceptable for a formal dinner.

Her gaze dropped to the hideous ball gown she’d been forced into, her lip curling in disdain. The pink monstrosity was drowning her in layers of suffocating ruffles, each one more obnoxious than the last.

Caelin tugged at the suffocating layers of pink lace again, a growl rising in her throat as the obnoxious ruffles bounced back into place with the resilience of a cockroach. It wasn’t just a dress—it was a punishment. A fluffy, pastel prison designed by her mother to remind her exactly who was in charge after the whole Lord Fontaine incident.

She huffed, her hand twitching toward the knife hidden in her sleeve. The thought of shredding the gown was tempting—so tempting—but she reminded herself that Madame Tolley had a direct line to her mother, and the fallout wasn’t worth it.

Caelin glared at her reflection on the glossy surface of the car’s console, her mind replaying the events of the day. Her father’s command still rang in her ears, tightening around her like an invisible noose. Tonight, you will tie with the next suitor. As if she were some commodity to be traded at the market. The idea made her stomach churn. She was Caelin Arlie—a top assassin, a master strategist, and, when the occasion called for it, a literal tiger. She did not “tie” with anyone, least of all some pompous i***t chosen by her father.

She shifted uncomfortably, the stiff fabric of the dress digging into her sides. The spa day offer had been the perfect bait, and Caelin had walked right into it like a rookie. By the time she’d emerged, blissfully relaxed and too distracted to argue, Madame Tolley had ambushed her with this walking nightmare of lace and bows.

Caelin clenched her fists, the memory of her mother’s smug smile flashing through her mind. This wasn’t just a gown; it was a declaration of war. If they couldn’t physically tie her down, they’d settle for drowning her in pink lace and societal expectations. As if the pink monstrosity wasn’t bad enough, she’d been subjected to Madame Tolley and her entourage of chattering hens for two hours straight. Their endless mental commentary still buzzed in her head like a swarm of angry bees.

That was why she was currently slouched in the back seat of a parked car, alone and brooding. It wasn’t much, but at least the silence here wasn’t pierced by thoughts about fabric choices and seam allowances.

She huffed and crossed her arms, glaring out the window at the empty street. If there were any justice in the world, she’d have finished off Lord Narcissus Fontaine when she had the chance. The pompous i***t had cursed her with his mind-reading ability. This new gift he had cursed her with was going to drive her insane. If she’d realized touching him would overwrite her tiger-shifting powers, she would have kept her claws clean and ended him from a distance.

After all, there were plenty of ways to kill someone without laying a finger on them. Six hundred and three, to be exact—she’d counted once when she was particularly bored during an assassination lecture.

Her mind churned with escape plans. She could “accidentally” spill wine on the dress, slip away under the pretense of cleaning up, and disappear into the night. Or perhaps she’d feign an illness—a sudden case of food poisoning would do nicely.

She smirked to herself, the flicker of rebellion enough to pull her from her spiraling thoughts. One way or another, tonight wouldn’t go the way her parents planned.

Speaking of plans, where was Cody? She glanced out the window again, her foot tapping impatiently. He was probably checking in with her parents, reporting on her every move like the good little spy he was. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going anywhere tonight. The lockdown was ironclad, and even if she managed to slip away unnoticed, her current outfit would betray her in an instant. The gown was basically a walking flare, and the fur coat screamed wealthy Arlie heiress. And the heels? Don’t even get her started.

Still, the thought of escape tugged at her. She slid her thumb across the knife hilt hidden in her sleeve, its weight comforting against her skin. Sometimes she entertained the idea of threatening Cody—just for fun. Demand he drive her to freedom or face the consequences. She snorted at the absurdity of it.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered. “Threaten the one guy my father handpicked to babysit me. That’ll go over great.”

Cody wasn’t just a driver; he was a highly trained operative who could probably take her down in three moves unless she was willing to use lethal force which she wasn’t. If she tried anything, she’d likely wind up hog-tied in the trunk with a smug Cody delivering her back to her father like a package marked return to sender.



Caelin grumbled, sinking further into the seat. Killing Cody wasn’t an option. No matter what she did, she’d return home, where her family would continue to manage her life as usual. Freedom remained an unreachable dream.