Page 82 of Thrones We Steal

The light has waned, the tree cover bringing evening much faster. Birds call to their mates to let them know dinner is served. We’ve been wandering for nearly two hours, when Beck glances around and says, “You do know where we are, right?”

“Of course,” I say automatically. The gravel car park should be coming into view any second now and … I turn around. The trees we just walked past look familiar, don’t they? Didn’t we walk this way earlier and are now looping back?

The more I study the forest, the less convinced I become. Everything looks the same, and in the fast diminishing light, it’s becoming harder to discern differences.

I meet Beck’s gaze. “I lied. I don’t have a clue where we are.”

He sits on a fallen log and pulls his phone out of his pocket. After a moment, he says, “There’s no service out here. I can’t get a GPS signal.”

“Let me try mine.” I try to pull up my maps app, but he’s right. We are isolated in a forest with no signal. “I am so sorry,” I say and sit beside him. “I will fix this, don’t worry.” I don’t have enough service to make a phone call, but maybe I can get a text through. After typing out the gist of our situation, I climb as high as I can on the log and hold my phone up, praying the text will go through.

It eventually does and I rejoin Beck. “I texted Maisie. She’ll send someone to get us out of here.” Although, the more I think of it, the more unsure I am how anyone will manage to find us. I told her the direction we headed in from the driveway, but since then we followed what we thought was the trail and have wound through the woods in almost every direction.

“Do you think we can retrace our steps?” I ask, looking back the way we’ve come.

He looks doubtful but agrees to try. I never should have suggested we venture this far. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For getting us lost. For dragging you out here. For everything.”

He helps me step across a large mud puddle in the middle of the trail, then takes my face in his hands. A warm security pools in my belly. “You don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says, before lowering his lips to mine again.

I despise the numbness that steals over me, and I decide then and there to kiss him with everything I have. I weave my fingers through his silky hair and draw him closer—not an easy feat since he’s a good twelve inches taller than me.

Ever the gentleman, Beck’s hands never stray from my face and hips. He kisses me gently, like I’m a delicate china teacup that will break if he does more than brush my skin. Has it always been like this? This June-and-Ward-Cleaver act with their twin beds and “hello dear, how was your day?” Is this what I’ve always wanted? I try encouraging him to ramp up the enthusiasm, but he must misread my signals because he releases me with a sheepish chuckle.

“We should keep going.”

“Or we could spend the night on the forest floor,” I say and give him my best attempt at a flirty look. I need this to work. If this unravels, there will be nothing left to hold me together.

He grabs my hand and tugs me along the path. “As tempting as that sounds, I’d better not risk the fallout of keeping the queen-in-waiting out overnight. And in the woods no less.”

We walk for thirty minutes before finally admitting that we’re likely no closer to his car than when we started. The forest is inky and mysterious—a completely different creature after sunset. The chill that felt good against my skin earlier has morphed into a cold that has numbed my toes.

Beck suggests trying to find a road instead. “Roads mean people and people mean phones.”

“Yes, but people also mean cameras and bad press,” I remind him.

“I’ll take a nasty tabloid article over being stuck out here until morning. Come on,” he says. “I think I hear traffic.”

He leads the way toward the sound, and before long we can see the flash of headlights through a break in the trees. I have to admit, news story or not, I’m elated at the prospect of escaping the forest.

“You stay here,” he says. “I’ll flag down a car. I won’t be recognized. They might be willing to drive us or at the very least tell us where we are.” He scrambles through the underbrush and is gone.

I can’t see my clothing in the dark, but I’m pretty sure I’m not recognizable in this state either. Waiting on Beck proves arduous, and I’m just about to walk out myself, bad press be damned, when Beck reappears in the shadows.

“I thought you said you texted your secretary,” he mutters.

“I did.”

Without another word of explanation, he helps me shimmy through the brushy overgrowth. I stumble out onto the grassy strip beside the country road. Our rescuer is still in the car, their headlights blinding me.

It isn’t until I climb into the back that I realize exactly who has come to our aid.

And with that realization come equal amounts of anger, relief, and an electric buzz that makes me a little nervous to touch metal.

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