"FUCK."
She dangled there, upside down, freezing, helpless, and fully exposed to whoever that baritone voice belonged to. The heavy velvet fabric felt hot and suffocating over her face, yet the rest of her was numb with cold and mortification.
A slow, appreciative chuckle floated up from below.
"Wow," the voice said, drawn out and clearly entertained.
"Shut up!" Trova/Perdita yelled, her breath catching in her chest. Her legs, flailing faintly above her, felt ridiculously exposed.
"Close your eyes!" she screeched, struggling to shift her torso.
"Turn around!" she commanded, the blood rushing to her head making her dizzy.
The man beneath her laughed again, a deep, rich sound that seemed to vibrate through the stone wall. "I am already turned around, little monkey," he said.
She immediately felt him shift and step closer. His boots crunched softly on the gravel below.
She panicked, trying to sound authoritative. "Leave this instant! I demand you depart!" she said in her best imitation of medieval movie nobility.
But Perdita didn't know if she wanted him to leave or help her; she was freaking naked with her butt hanging in the unforgiving winter air.
"I don't think that would be a good idea for me to leave," he said, the cockiness in his tone unmistakable. He paused. "You seem to be in serious need of aid."
With no option left but dignity demolition, she surrendered. "Fine! Please, can you help push my head back up?"
"What?" The mysterious man sounded genuinely taken aback.
Trova heard a slight rustle, suggesting he might be looking up at her ridiculous predicament, and then she heard the familiar, low-thrumming beat of her music escaping the displaced headphones now pressing against her back. The man didn't seem to notice the sound.
"You want me to… push your head back up?" he repeated, his full brown hair likely visible now in her peripheral vision if she could only see.
She sighed, a frustrated, choking sound as the blood pounded in her ears. "You see, I was trying to ru—to leave. I don't intend to come down right now." She caught herself just before admitting to the attempted escape.
"There's no way I can push your head back up. I'm not a wizard," he said, his voice darkening with amusement.
Wizard. That word sparked a frantic, irrational hope. Maybe a local wizard could help her contact that absolute idiot, Adam.
"Do wizards exist here?" she asked excitedly, immediately choking on the question because of the way she was hanging. Her leg shook from the strain, but she quickly balanced herself, the adrenaline briefly overriding the panic. Oh lord, this cannot be the life I have fallen into. Will I just die now?
"Monkey, you need to release yourself and I will catch you. You can't keep hanging like that. The guards might be here soon, and it won't be just a single pair of eyes that has seen you, but at least twelve." He spoke as calmly as possible, his baritone voice sending a weird, deep shiver across the skin of her exposed behind.
He's still calling me monkey, she thought, hating that she was now fully reliant on this stranger.
"What should I do?" she asked, a childish, pouty whimper escaping her lips.
"Let me turn around, and you trust me," he said, his voice dropping slightly, now sounding like a firm but patient coach.
Trust. Perdita's brow furrowed beneath the velvet shroud, and the physical effort of the frown only made her more dizzy. Trust was a heavy, risky word. But the cold was brutal, and the embarrassment was fatal.
"Alright," she conceded softly, the fear overcoming the skepticism. "Please don't let me down." She was already shaking up there.
A beat of silence, then his voice, closer than before, reaching her through the heavy velvet shroud. "I won't, little monkey. Come on, I'm turning around now."
He took one step away, the sound muffled by the gravel, and Trova felt the abrupt, unsettling loss of his presence directly below her.
"Okay," Trova muttered, still dangling upside down like a confused fruit bat. The heavy nightdress had an elastic band under the bust that kept it from slipping completely off, but it still trapped her arms and covered her face, the blood pounding painfully in her temples.
The rope swung her a little, disorienting her. She struggled, pulling the fabric just enough to free her head, blinking rapidly as her vision swam from the rush of blood.
Though still inverted, she saw him clearly.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in heavy, dark leather armor over a thick woolen tunic—definitely a warrior. His hair was thick, dark brown, and rougher than hers, currently tousled by the wind. His posture was rigid, his back perfectly straight, facing the cold stone wall.
Wow, what a man, she thought, the primitive part of her brain briefly overriding the panic. But then she noticed a crucial, terrifying detail: his eyes were clamped shut.
"You don't have to close your eyes!" she called down to him.
He didn't move an inch. "Thank you, but I will."
She sighed, a tremor of pure fear running through her exhausted body. If he couldn't see her coming, how would he catch her? "How will you catch me then?"
"Nature will save you," he said, a distinct laugh coloring the baritone.
"You can't be serious," she shuddered, the cold finally reaching her core.
He insisted, his voice now firm, allowing no room for argument. "I would leave you if I opened my eyes."
"Why won't you open your eyes?" she asked, frustrated and increasingly scared.
"I will be a husband soon. I have to be loyal to my bride," he replied solemnly.
Trova's panic stalled. She actually—surprisingly—respected that. She took a deep, painful breath, the strain of hanging vertical burning her ribs. "Oh, okay. I might die, but that's genuinely respectful. I'm coming now."
"Do it, monkey," he chuckled.
And Trova, deciding death by falling was preferable to death by exposure and forced marriage, released her feet.
She fell without a sound.
But before she had a chance to panic, she was caught. She wasn't simply grabbed; she was wrapped in a hold that was instantly Comforting, Cozy, and Inviting.
The scent that hit her was overpowering, but in the best way possible. It was a natural, radiant sweetness—not sugary or sharp, but syrupy and golden—that smelled intrinsically safe and familiar. It projected an aura of harmony and homeliness, making her feel instantly settled and at ease, as if she'd suddenly returned to a place of shelter.
Perdita took a deep, steadying breath. He was also huge; his armor was rigid, but the muscles beneath felt substantial. She slowly opened her eyes.
He slowly dropped her from his arms until her sneakers touched the gravel. His pair of arrogant, penetrating brown eyes—now fully open—held her curious, still slightly dazed blue eyes.
"You smell really…" she started, trying to grasp the confusing familiarity of his scent.
He didn't let her finish. He simply gave her a once-over—taking in the modern sneakers, the disheveled nightgown, and the ridiculous state of her hair—and cut her off with a look of supreme disdain.
"Okay, monkey, I am a respected figure. Let me go."
'Wait, what? TF?' Perdita thought, her jaw dropping. She instantly released the heavy fabric of his tunic with a frustrated scoff. All the reverence she felt for his 'loyalty' vanished instantly.
"Do you know who I am, too? You better not tell anyone you saw me, now run along before I tell the King that you've compromised my honor and you'll have no choice but to marry me instead of your fiancée," she bluffed, crossing her arms defensively.
His eyes looked genuinely puzzled. "Fiancée?" he asked, the unfamiliar word sounding odd on his tongue.
She blinked. Did they not have the word in this year? Fiancée was adapted from France in the 1800s. "Oh, umm… the lady you are about to marry. She's your fiancée," she explained impatiently.
He took a sharp step back from her, the leather of his armour creaking. "There is nothing that can stop me from making her my bride," he declared, his baritone now ringing with possessive certainty.
She dusted the invisible dirt from her nightdress and smoothed her hair. She scoffed. "That sounds cliché and darkly medieval, but alright.
As she picked her precious headphones up from the gravel, she scowled. "What is your name, kind sir?"