His Broken Luna From The Shadows

Alistair's ice-blue eyes watched her for ten full seconds. The silence was a physical weight.

Eleanor held her subservient pose, every muscle in her body coiled tight with vigilance.

Suddenly, he pushed his door open and stepped out of the carriage.

He stood before her, his tall frame blocking the sun. His shadow fell over her, a cloak of immense pressure.

Eleanor took an involuntary half-step back.

The tiny movement did not escape his notice. His eyes seemed to grow colder. He didn't touch her.

"Iris would be worried to see you like this," he said.

The words were a clever maneuver. He had created a reason for his actions that had nothing to do with her, everything to do with his fiancée. It was a perfect, socially acceptable excuse.

Eleanor's gaze dropped to the dusty road. She couldn't tell if his words stemmed from genuine concern for Iris or from the hollow chivalry of a nobleman toward his fiancée's sister.

Either way, it had nothing to do with her. This concern was not for her.

The realization swept away all other emotions, leaving only a cold, hard wall of caution.

She looked up, her face a mask of polite, distant pleasantry. "If it is for Miss Iris, then I should not refuse."

She accepted his excuse, but in doing so, she made it clear: she was getting in the carriage because of Iris, not because of him.

Biting back a gasp of pain from her knee, she moved toward the door herself, refusing any offer of a helping hand.

Alistair watched her stubborn, limping form, his gloved hands clenching into tight fists at his sides.

Inside, Eleanor pressed herself into the far corner, creating as much distance as the space would allow. The air was thick with the scent of cedar and cold winter air that clung to him, a scent that had once made her heart race. Now it only made her feel suffocated.

Alistair entered, and the small space seemed to shrink.

He reached into a hidden compartment and produced a small, elegant first-aid box. He opened it. Inside lay clean bandages and a small pot of ointment.

"Treat your wound," he said, holding the box out to her. His tone left no room for argument.

Eleanor looked at the delicate porcelain pot, then back at his face. She did not take it. "Thank you, Your Grace. But a servant cannot use something so valuable."

The third refusal. The third time she had thrown her new identity in his face.

Alistair's patience finally broke. He snatched the pot, twisted the lid off with a sharp crack, and leaned toward her.

He was going to do it himself.

Eleanor's body went rigid. A switch flipped in her mind, and she reacted like a cornered animal.

"Your Grace, I must ask you to maintain your decorum!" she snapped, scrambling back into the corner, her voice sharp with panic and revulsion.

Her reaction was so violent it stopped him cold. His hand froze in mid-air.

He stared at her, at the genuine fear and disgust in her eyes. A flicker of something—hurt, confusion—passed through his own icy gaze.

Slowly, he retracted his hand. He placed the pot of ointment on the seat beside her with a hard thud.

"As you wish," he bit out.

He turned his head to stare out the window, his profile a hard, unforgiving line. He did not look at her again.

The silence that followed was a thousand times more tense than before.

The carriage finally rolled to a stop before the grand entrance of Montgomery Manor. For Eleanor, it felt like a pardon. She moved to get out before the footman could even open the door.