//CLARA//
I could see it, the control he tried so hard to maintain not just slipping, but fraying into ashes.
Casimir's hand moved from my waist to the back of my thighs, fingers tangling in the lace fringe of my dress. His other hand cupped the back of my head, massive palm spreading until his thumb reached under my jaw. His face invaded my space.
"If I touch you," he whispered.
His hand slid upward, tracing the seam of my stocking. My entire body ignited. His knuckles grazed the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, teasing the edge of my garter band.
"I will ruin you. No reputation left to salvage. I'll burn every bridge in this city just to keep you in my shadow. Is that what you want, little bird? To be destroyed by me?"
"Destroyed?" My fingers crawled up his jaw as I leaned closer. "You think reputation scares me?"
If only he knew the PR nightmares I'd handled.
His eyes darkened to midnight storm. A guttural sound of defeat escaped him as he buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling sharply against my skin, clinging like I was the only thing keeping him afloat.
"I should throw you out of this carriage for my own sanity," he murmured against my pulse.
His fingers tightened on my garter. His lips began a slow ascent up my throat, my chin, my jawline, the sensitive spot below my ear.
A moan clawed its way up my chest.
"But God help me," he growled, "a far greater part of me would let you ruin me in any way you choose."
His finger hooked the garter, tugging it lower. My eyes fluttered shut.
Finally.
The world tilted.
A deafening crack ripped through the air, the kind that drops your stomach before you understand why.
"Whoa! Easy!" The coachman yelled.
The wooden beam above us splintered. The carriage lurched violently left, wheels swallowed by the earth. We slammed onto our side. I gasped, my body crashing through the seat panel—
Something looped around my waist.
"Clara!"
Casimir's arms wrapped around me like iron bands, shielding my head, crushing me against his chest as glass shattered. A lethal rain of crystals flew through the air. Another tumble. Skidding. His entire weight pinned me against the wreckage.
Then…silence.
Only distant, panicked horses.
"Casimir?" My voice trembled.
He didn't move. His hair was a disaster. His shoulder torn open, likely by jagged wood. He just stared at me, eyes wild, scanning my face desperately for injury. Chest heaving against mine. Hands gripping like I'd vanish if he let go.
"Are you hurt?"
He snapped into motion, hands skimming my shoulders, my neck, my arms—each touch a blur of heat. He cupped my face, tilting it side to side, checking for blood.
"Clara, tell me you're not hurt."
"I'm fine, I'm—"
"Mr. Guggenheim! Sir!"
The coachman's panicked face appeared at the window above that now became the roof.
"The axle broke! I can't hold the horses!"
The heat between us doused like ice water. Casimir's expression shifted from raw want to cold emotion in a heartbeat. He let go as if my skin burned him.
"Stay here." He hauled himself toward the door. "Don't move until I tell you."
Then he was gone.
I sat there, chest heaving, trying to process the last sixty seconds before panic started to set in.
No fuel, no gasoline. So safe to say this carriage won't explode. Right?
Small mercies.
But staring at the mangled wood and snapped beams. A realization hit me. Car crashes aren't modern. Long before engines, people still found ways to die on roadsides. Just different aesthetics.
The adrenaline ebbed. Irritation took its place.
I wasn't sitting here like a good little girl.
I scrambled up, testing my grip. Thank God for Pilates. My muscles strained as I pulled myself toward the door. Failed. The dress weighed a ton, dragging me down every time I lifted my feet.
The glittering broken glass caught my eye.
I grabbed a piece and went to work. Sliced through layers of silk and petticoat, careful not to cut myself. Within seconds, my gown went from High Society Ball to Post-Apocalyptic Chic. Ankles showing? Don't care. Inner slip visible? Whatever. At least I could move.
I hauled myself through the door and dropped into the muddy road with a wet thud. Ignored the ancient bacteria thoughts. Made a mental note to drown in disinfectant later.
"Clara! What in the name of—"
Casimir stood by the horses, face spattered with mud, jaw dropping at my state. I dusted off my shredded skirt.
"You look like a street urchin." His eyes flashed rage, and something like panic as he glanced at the gathering crowd. "I told you to stay inside."
"And I don't follow orders." I stepped toward the wreckage. "Instead of policing my wardrobe, look at why we're standing in a ditch."
I ignored his growl and leaned over the rear wheel. The axle was snapped. But something was wrong.
I'd dealt with enough office sabotage and watched enough dramas to recognize this. Clean cut. Gone halfway through the wood before the road finished the job.
I raked my brain for Eleanor's diary. She'd mentioned this day. Written it off as bad luck when Casimir's carriage broke down.
Naive girl. She hadn't realized the man she loved was a walking target.
"Clara, were you even—"
"Someone did this." I turned to face him. "This wasn't an accident, Casimir. Someone sawed through that axle."
Rain started pattering against my skin, soaking through my torn dress. Cold bit hard. I didn't care.
His eyes snapped from the axle to my face, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
"You're in shock. The crash—"
"Don't." I stepped into his space, rain plastering my face. "Look at the wood. That's a clean cut. Unless the horses suddenly carry saws, someone wants you dead. So stop worrying about my appearance and—"
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping my arm, dragging me toward a nearby tree—away from the coachman and crowd.
"Let go!"
He didn't. Not until we were out of sight. I braced for yelling.
Instead, he ripped off his coat and threw it over my shoulders, nearly knocking the wind out of me. Pulled the lapels tight, covering my ruined dress.
"Don't take me for a fool, Clara."
He leaned down, lips brushing my ear, voice dropping to something deadly.
"I am merely determining whose throat to slit first for the attempt."