But I’m still in Alvione. I manage to convince Peter to let me pack, though I’m not quite sure what to pack or how, so he ends up having to help me. He locates a trunk in the house and assures me that I have permission to use it (well, technically, he says, “What are they going to do? Deny the queen?”). We fill it with the free clothes the women have given me, him determining which dress he thinks will impress his father the most—a dark, tight number with considerable puffiness below the waist—and we pack each piece into the trunk until it’s barely able to close shut.

When Martin returns, he teleports the trunk outside while Peter packs one of his own. I head out as well and stop short at the sight of the stagecoach that will be my home for the next few weeks. It’s small, almost cube-like, carved with plant-like designs all along the auburn wood. Two brown horses linger at the front, looking bored and stamping their feet impatiently now and again. Martin introduces me to the coachman, whose name I promptly forget, and I make awkward small talk with Miri who hurries over while we wait for Peter to get ready. A few guards on horses linger nearby—and I suppose they’ll be escorting us.

“We’re not all riding in this one, right?” I ask Martin nervously, nodding to the stagecoach.

He shakes his head. “No. This one will be for you and me. Peter, Miri, and Leon all have their own.” Miri has her own coach? At my confused look, he adds, “Leon has many things. Miri will be accompanying the extra luggage.”

Oh. “His stuff didn’t burn?”

Martin sighs. “Much of it did. He is bringing back what didn’t burn.”

Jeez, Leon’s some kind of diva, huh? Good thing I don’t say that out loud though, because I feel a hand on my shoulder, and there he is, his dark eyes sparkling with undeserved affection. “My apologies,” he says sheepishly, his warm voice and touch washing over me. “My servants will be joining Miri in that stagecoach as well.”

I realize I had no idea he’d even had servants with him, but there’s no time to talk about that, because Martin is ushering me into the stagecoach now and suddenly we’re on our way.

Martin and I crowd the small space, our feet bumping as we sit across from each other. I can see why he didn’t let me travel with anyone else—he probably thinks I wouldn’t be able to control myself. I sigh because he’s probably right. Plus, this gives us time to talk.

But we don’t talk. Not at first. He stares out the window, his brows furrowed, clearly deep in thought. The bumpy ride has me, on the other hand, unfocused and growing increasingly nauseous by the second. Fucking hell. Stagecoach sickness already? It’s been two seconds.

I break the silence with a cough. His eyes flick to mine. “These things are pretty small, huh?” I say.

He looks me up and down, his frown deepening. “You seem ill.”

I nod and fight against rising bile. “Ill. I’m ill.”

He sighs. “We just left the castle gates. We have days of this.” He reaches out and takes me by the shoulders, then lays me down on the seat. There’s no room for my legs, so I just flop over lamely, looking up at him with a pout. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “Try to sleep.”

My body rocks violently along with the unsteady movement of the stagecoach, and a rush of nausea slams through me like a tidal wave. I cover my mouth as I gag.

A look of pure panic flashes across Martin’s face as he hisses, “No! Don’t you dare.” He takes hold of me again and lifts my upper half for a moment so he can sit beside me, then he lays me back down in his lap, my head resting between his warm thighs. He tries to absorb as much of the bumpiness as possible, and it does feel a bit better like this, but it’s not enough. Please don’t puke, please don’t puke, please . . . Then, gently, he runs his fingers through my hair, distracting me from the discomfort. It feels nice, really nice, and my body relaxes ever so slightly. “No vomiting,” he murmurs. “It will make things so much worse.”

“Mmph.” I nod weakly and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus on the touch of his hand and the warmth of his body. I concentrate on the feeling of him tucking a bit of hair behind my ear, trying to let it distract me.

“You are so defenseless,” he mutters.

Speaking of . . . I turn my head up toward him and meet his worried gaze with my own. “What are we going to do with Ward?” I whisper. “How am I going to . . . curry favor?”

He cups my cheek and shakes his head. “Let Peter do most of the work. You are not in this alone.” He pauses thoughtfully, then adds, “I will not lie—I do not know a lot about Paulo and Hae. They do not hold meetings often, nor do they address their people much at all. They’re private people. I am not sure if it is because they have secrets they wish to protect, or if they simply prefer to be left alone.” He returns to carding his fingers through my hair, moving some stray strands out of my face. “Our arrival will not be unexpected, however. Peter had his courier run ahead with a message to inform them of our impending visit. I hope it will be well-received, though there is no way to know for sure with them. Should things turn out badly, I will teleport us as far away as I can, so ensure you stay beside me at all times.”

This is going to be anxiety inducing, isn’t it?

He continues, “I imagine they will not want to cause a scene, however. This will be your first meeting with them, and the impression you make I am sure will have some impact on how they choose to proceed in the future. So be gracious. But with Alvione weakened already, there is no reason for them to attack in this way. It would make more sense for them to go straight to the castle itself and take it while we are gone.”

I frown. “Uh . . . should we be worried about that?”

He smiles at me softly. “I find myself much more concerned with the matter of getting you home.”

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Right. Fuck. I almost forgot . . . that this is not my real life.

I’m getting caught up in the game. In the story. In this world. It’s escapism on an impossible scale; I’ve been here too long. Am I losing myself?

Do I even care about going home to . . . ?

For the first time in a while, I see my parents’ faces in my mind. It doesn’t matter how old you are; when you think of your parents, you become a child again. Their child. Whether you want to or not.

Because we’ve never been all that close. But the thought of them being without me in their world, for whatever reason, brings the sting of tears to my eyes. I can imagine their devastation at my loss, and it makes my chest tighten with guilt that I might so easily forget them when I know they’d never forget me. That I might give up on finding a way to return to their world—my world—knowing the hurt it would cause them if I were to . . . what? Die? Accept that I might be dead? What can I even do, when I don’t know what’s happened to me? The thought feels heavy, intangible, and I’m starting to spiral when I look up at Martin and see the care in his eyes, the care for me, Rose, not Eliana. I feel him wiping a tear from my cheek, but that just spurs on another.

It all hits me in the gut.

He wants to help me. He hasn’t lost sight of what’s important—that this isn’t my home. That I can’t just stay. I might be ready to accept my fate being stuck here, but that doesn’t mean I should give up on the possibility of going back to my world.

Of seeing my parents again.

Even Daisuke and Jenna.

Trix.

Snowy.

Maybe even Adam.

“Don’t cry,” Martin says softly, and I try my best not to. It feels good to be cared for. And yet . . . it also makes my heart clench in a way I don’t quite understand. I look up at him blearily.

Light filters in through the open window of the stagecoach, highlighting the green of his eyes and painting a shadow through the jagged scar on his cheek. His dark hair rustles in the breeze, the streaks of silver glimmering in the sun. His smile is conflicted, but warm, meant to soothe me. And I feel safe.

I bury my face in his stomach, which makes him tense for a moment before relaxing again, his hands continuing their soothing motion.

“Do you think I’m actually dead in my world?” I murmur into his clothes.

I can feel the steadiness of his breath falter for a moment. Then he says, “I don’t know. But there is much we do not know about your situation. So let us try not to chase after questions we could not possibly answer.”

“You are an unexpectedly optimistic person,” I whisper.

At that he chuckles softly. “And you are not like any person I have ever met.”

Soothing words. Familiar ones too. I forget about the bumpiness of the ride and our destination. I forget everything but the slightest smell of smoke that clings to his clothes, the rough warmth of the fabric, the even breaths he takes. I’m not sure where it comes from, maybe the quiet of the moment, but I find myself fading into sleep. “I love you so much,” I murmur, and I feel his hand still, but then I’m gone.

The heavy lurch of the stagecoach as it pops down and out of a deep pothole has me jolting awake.

Fuck. I’m still here.

I look up at Martin and realize he’s sleeping, his head lowered over his chest in a way that looks uncomfortable, his breathing soft and unhurried. I sit up carefully, peeking out the window. Sunset. My sleep schedule is fucked.

It doesn’t take long for the unsteady motion of the stagecoach to bring back a faint glimmer of nausea, but I fight it by locking my gaze on the horizon line out the window. Empty grassy plains pass us by. In the distance are shapes that look like farmhouses, unlit and sinking into the darkness like everything else. If it weren’t for the rattle of the stagecoach, the beating of the horses’ hooves, I imagine it’d be quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you either think deeply about your life or slowly go insane.

I suppose, for me, it would be a combination of both.

If this is my life now, well, that might not be so bad. I have a real job here, after all, and people who care about me. As far as I know, there’s nobody within Alvione actively plotting against my life in particular, though the matter of politics starts to hurt my head whenever I think about it too much.

Maybe I could just follow the Eliana route and marry Peter. Sure, Leon gives me butterflies, but you don’t choose a political marriage based on butterflies. Plus, Peter is hot. He likes me, clearly. Maybe even loves me—yikes—and he’s good in bed. I can’t be too mad at that. While I don’t exactly enjoy playing with his and Leon’s feelings, it has a purpose beyond my own enjoyment, and it’s not like I dislike having two hot princes chasing after me. Actually, that’s why I liked these books in the first place.

Who knew that a dramatic love triangle from a cheesy novel could actually be real? And not totally suck. Like, it’s actually kind of great.

Martin starts slumping over further, as if he’s going to topple, and my hands quickly shoot out to catch him. He doesn’t wake up. Damn, bro is tired. But as I try to straighten him back to a seated position, he ends up leaning toward me, and his dead weight is too much for my weak arms to carry. I lower him slowly in the direction he’s falling—across my chest, as it so happens—and huff as I’m crushed against the corner of the stagecoach with him snoring quietly on top of me.

Well. Okay.

I shift until I’m relatively comfortable and peer down at his peaceful features. He looks sweet like this—almost innocent, vulnerable—and I find myself smiling. He’s so cute. My little medieval bestie.

From a nobody in the book to the best friend I ever had. What a trajectory. How fucking weird is my life?

Suddenly, a scream pierces the air, and I freeze. It’s not human. No . . . one of the horses? The stagecoach comes to an abrupt stop, and Martin wakes with a start, his eyes meeting mine in a questioning look. But there’s no time to talk as we hear the frantic yelling of the coachman and guards and the stamping of horses’ feet. The sound of someone’s humorless, deep laughter sends a cold chill through me, and then there are heavy footsteps, rustling clothes, the sound of galloping horses, and the shouting gets further away. I grip Martin’s wrist worriedly, and my heartbeat stills at the sight of a large human-like man peering in through the window.

He’s huge, wide, smiling.

“Hello,” the man rumbles, the words catching on the wide tusks that protrude from his mouth, past thin brownish-green lips.

Orcs. That’s an orc.

Shit.

We are so fucked.