Free Autumn Rose: A Dark Heroine Novel by Abigail Gibbs

hand yanking on the material of my blouse. Landing on the floor, I pulled my feet back over the lip of the frame just in time as the door slammed shut so violently that the lowest pane of glass fell from its seal and shattered on the ground outside.
    “Are you okay?” I heard the prince ask while I stared dumbly at the broken door, where the wind now rushed through and chilled my exposed legs—my tights had laddered. “I’m giving you a lift home. No arguments.”
    I didn’t argue. It would be useless to argue; his point had already been proven. He helped me up.
    “Watch the glass,” he said and then flung the door open, bracing his back against the frame as I leaped over the fragments and sprinted for the sheltered entrance on the other side of the quad. Behind me, I heard the door slam and a curse whip past me, mangled by the wind. It was followed by the sound of footsteps in hot pursuit.
    Suddenly, a hand grabbed mine and urged me on, tugging me down the steps and into the school’s tunneled entrance, where we paused, shivering. The prince rubbed his upper arms ferociously.
    “Ready?” He extended his hand toward me after a minute.
    I looked at it for a few seconds and then out to the rain. Even if I remained close enough to touch him, I wouldn’t see him. As I looked, the parking lot lit up beneath sheet lightning.
    “Come on,” he insisted and took my hand, pulling me back out into the rain as the inevitable thunder followed. I squinted, searching for a car, any car, until suddenly, through the gloom, a pair of headlights flashed on and off and I caught a brief glimpse of a surprisingly understated five-door sports car—but more interestingly, a car with no Athenean coat of arms across its side.
    He headed for the right door and gave me a gentle nudge around the hood. I pulled my bag off and got in the passenger side, placing it at my feet but keeping a tight hold on the handle, only letting go to plug my seat belt in. He had already started the engine and was reaching across to turn the heating on, turning the dial right up. I felt the air, initially cold, blasting through the vents, and my feet inched toward the warmth. With the windshield wipers beating, he pulled out of the parking lot.
    “You live in Brixham, right?” I nodded and he signaled right. The sound of the rain on the windshield and the rolls of thunder every minute or so prevented him from saying anything, so I looked out of the window. Every time the lightning struck, the valley below us would light up, revealing the fields, houses, and the corner of the late-Victorian building that made up the Naval College; a building that was no stranger to royal officer cadets, albeit the human kind. The scene was suspended in negative and then faded again.
    The steep main road leading to the lower town was deserted and, as we rounded the foot of the Naval College, so was the queue for the higher ferry. When we neared the slipway, a large yellow sign made it apparent why: it was closed due to the bad weather. The prince cursed under his breath.
    “Try the lower ferry,” I murmured, finding it difficult to talk with him there. He looked at me, puzzled. “Follow the embankment,” I added, but didn’t hold out much hope. If the sturdier higher ferry was closed, then the barge-and-tug that was the lower ferry would be, too. I was right. As we approached the oldest part of town, where the beamed black-and-white upper floors of buildings leaned precariously over the cobbled pavement and fishermen’s cottages lined the streets, I could see one of the ferrymen deserting his post as he bent against the wind. Out in the choppy river, I could just make out the lights of the ferry heading back to its pontoon.
    The prince sighed. “Guess it’s the road way around then. You’ll have to direct me.” I nodded and he continued, “I normally turn off at Totnes toward Dartmoor. I haven’t been to Torbay yet.” He finished, and out of the corner of my eye I