Annabelle had prepared herself for many things—confusion, hesitation, perhaps even a rugged sort of shyness. But she was not prepared for the wall of sheer, icy hostility that Miguel threw up between them. His reaction didn't just sting; it felt like a physical blow to her chest.
"I was at the forge," she began, her voice small against the towering silence of the woods. "Peter told me it was unusual for you to miss a day. I… I was worried about you, Miguel."
"Why?" The word was a jagged blade. Miguel didn't move to open the door; instead, he leaned back against the rough timber, crossing his arms over his chest.
The look he leveled at her made her pulse falter. It wasn't the look of a man who was flattered by the attention of a beautiful girl; it was the look of a man who was deeply, dangerously annoyed. The orange glow of the dying sun caught the hardness in his jaw and the coldness in his dark eyes.
"Look here, Miss," he said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal rumble. "I don't appreciate you hunting me down at my own home. As you can see, you and I are not the same. We come from different worlds, we eat at different tables, and we have no business being friends. Not now, and not ever."
"I... I'm sorry," Annabelle whispered. Her throat felt tight, the air suddenly too thin to breathe.
"The people from your side of the valley look down on us like we're the dirt beneath their boots," Miguel continued, his words gaining speed and heat. "I don't know what your game is. Maybe you enjoy the chase. Maybe you're bored in your manor and decided to see what a common blacksmith looks like up close. But I'm telling you right now—I am not interested in being your amusement."
"It's not a game!" Annabelle cried, her pride finally flaring through the hurt. "I don't look down on you. I just thought… I thought we had a connection. I thought we could be friends."
Miguel stared at her for a long, agonizing minute. His face remained a mask of stone. "Please," he said, his voice now dangerously quiet. "Don't show up at my house again. And when you come to the forge, stop trying to catch my eye. It will never work. You are wasting your time and mine."
Annabelle felt as though he had reached into her chest and squeezed the life out of her heart. She hadn't done anything to deserve this—had she? Was it a crime to care? She turned to flee, to run back into the manor and hide, but she stopped in her tracks as the reality of the darkening woods settled in.
She looked back at him, her lip trembling. "I... I don't know the way back."
Miguel let out a long, weary sigh—a sound of pure exasperation that made her feel like an unwanted child. Without a word, he pushed off the door and started walking. He didn't check to see if she was following; he simply moved through the shadows with long, effortless strides.
Annabelle followed several paces behind, her eyes fixed on the muddy heels of his boots. She kept her head down, her vision blurring. Hot, angry tears threatened to spill over, but she blinked them back, refusing to let him see the wreckage he had made of her spirit.
When they finally reached the edge of the market square, Miguel whistled for a carriage. As the rickety vehicle pulled up, he stepped forward and offered his hand to help her onto the step.
Annabelle looked at his calloused palm—the hand she had spent weeks dreaming about—and felt a surge of bitter resentment. She ignored his hand entirely, clutching her silk skirts and hoisting herself into the carriage with stiff, shaking movements.
Miguel reached into his pocket and offered the driver a few copper coins.
"I'll pay for my own carriage," Annabelle snapped, her voice trembling as she frantically dug through her silk pouch for silver. After the way he had stripped her of her dignity, she wouldn't let him pay for her departure.
"You think I can't afford it?" Miguel asked. There was a new edge to his voice, a prickly defensiveness that suggested her refusal was just another insult to him.
Annabelle opened her mouth to explain—to say that it wasn't about the money, but about the hurt—but Miguel didn't give her the chance. He tossed the coins to the driver, told him the name of the manor, and turned his back on her before the wheels had even begun to turn.
As the carriage jolted forward, the distance between them grew. Annabelle watched his retreating figure through the small back window until he was nothing more than a speck in the gloom. The tears she had been holding back finally broke, spilling down her cheeks in a hot, silent flood. She had lost her way, ruined her shoes, and risked her reputation, all to be treated like a plague by the only man she had ever truly wanted.