Page 42 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
The carriage gave a sudden lurch as it hit a rut in the road.
The world tilted.
The breath seized in her throat. The sharp jolt sent her crashing against the cushions, the violent motion too familiar. A storm. A carriage skidding off the road. The deafening crack of splintering wood. A scream—herscream—ripping through the night.
The scent of damp earth. The crushing weight of debris. Blood. So much blood.
Michael. No, no, no?—
A hand caught her waist, firm and steady. Heat pressed against her side, solid, unyielding.
“Rosaline,” Adam’s voice, low and close.
She couldn’t breathe.
“Look at me.”
Her pulse roared in her ears. The walls of the carriage pressed in, suffocating her?—
His fingers flexed against her waist, a grounding pressure. “Rosaline. You are safe.”
She gasped, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat before she even realized what she was doing.
Not then. Now.
The scent of sandalwood, not rain-drenched wood and decay. The warmth of a man’s body, not the cold, unyielding grasp of death.
Her breaths came in quick, shallow pants, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “That’s it.”
As if realizing how tightly he held her, Adam abruptly let go, his body going rigid. He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was gruff, unreadable.
Rosaline swallowed hard, forcing the lingering terror back into the recesses of her mind. She had spent five years learning how to do this. How to pull herself out of the abyss before it swallowed her whole.
She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, smoothing a shaking hand over her skirts.
“No,” she murmured, forcing a touch of levity into her tone. “Though I do believe you startled me, Your Grace.”
His eyes—dark and piercing—studied her as if searching for something beneath the teasing words.
She lifted her chin, determined to meet his gaze, even as the phantom echoes of the past still whispered at the edges of her mind.
He hesitated before inclining his head. “Then I shall consider myself forgiven.”
A small smile curved her lips, though her fingers remained curled tightly in her lap. “It was simply… unexpected.”
The carriage rocked gently onward, the storm a distant memory. But deep inside, Rosaline knew—some ghosts did not fade so easily.
He studied her face, his gaze lingering on her lips. She felt a shiver of anticipation run down her spine. This was dangerous, she knew. Playing with fire, flirting with disaster. But the thrill of it, the thrill of pushing him, of testing the limits of his control, was intoxicating.
He turned away, his gaze fixed on the darkening landscape, his breathing ragged.
He was fighting it, she realized, fighting the primal urge that had compelled him to touch her. And she, for some inexplicable reason, found herself inexplicably drawn to him, to the raw, untamed power that simmered beneath his icy exterior.
The carriage rattled along the darkening street, the silence between them heavy with unspoken desires.
