As the gates opened and our convoy thundered southward, one thought echoed in my mind:
If this man so much as glances at my tent tonight, I will either murder him or marry him: and there will be no in-between.
*****
Three days. Three long, utterly chaotic, lip-focused days of travel.
We rode. We rolled. We shared one cursed carriage like a political alliance on the edge of a slow-burn romance novel.
I thought I’d be annoyed. Bored. Full war-mode Abby, focused and unflinching.
Instead?
It was… cozy. It was… comfortable. It was a problem.
Day One:
He sat across from me, arms crossed, cloak tossed aside, thighs spread like a scandal.
He started small talk—yes, the Duke of Brooding started small talk.
“The South Kingdom exports more sea salt than fish.”
“The dungeon near my estate
