Amelia had considered herself above such things.
She had suffered too long—years of abuse, seclusion, and hardship—to allow Claude Everthorne to sting her with empty words. And yet, as she strode out of the great hall, her breast seethed with a pain she hated.
His voice, dripping with disdain and icy reserve, rang in her head:
"Perhaps I expected too much of a cripple who was never meant to be a duchess."
The room had fallen quiet. Even Isolde had blanched at the venom in his words. But Amelia had smiled, chin lifted with a poise that belied the pain about to suffocate her.
She would not grant them the pleasure of a response.
So she departed.
And now, as she walked towards the stables, her legs shaking with unspoken fury, she understood something perilous—she wanted to flee.
She yearned to escape the stifling walls of Everthorne Manor, the pity-filled or laughing eyes, the burden of a past that would not release her.
The instant her mare, Grace, was saddled, she mounted, disregarding the stable hand's worried look. With no hesitation, she urged the horse on, riding into the open fields, into freedom.
The wind shrieked about her as she rode, the rhythmic drumming of Grace's hooves keeping pace with the frantic beat of her own heart. Above her, the sky grew darker, clouds gathering like a wave, thick and ominous.
She didn't care.
She was free.
For the first time in days, the crushing burden of her marriage, of Everthorne, of him, receded. She spurred Grace on more quickly, riding beyond the fields and into the dark woodland beyond, where great trees loomed like silent sentinels, hiding her from the world.
And then, the heavens split.
A loud, fierce boom of thunder boomed overhead, the sound cleaving the sky in two. Grace stumbled back, her terrified neigh ringing through the trees. Amelia gasped, her hold slipping as the horse's muscles tightened beneath her.
And then—
She was falling.
The earth whirled about wildly as she fell backward, her body crushing into the hard, frigid ground. Pain. White-hot and searing, it burst through her as her side hit a sharp rock. Air left her lungs in a harsh hiss, her eyes blurring on the perimeter.
Grace's hooves stamped away, the mare's fear propelling her back toward the manor.
Amelia rested there, rain spattering down in cold drops against her skin. Her own breath was shallow, agonized gasps as she strained to raise herself up.
Move.
She clamped down on her teeth, pressing a shaking hand to her ribcage. Heat flooded beneath her palm—blood. She had slammed into the rock more than she realized.
Get up.
But the hurt was agonizing. Her leg—her fragile leg that had been weak ever since childhood, ever since her injury—would not cooperate. Her ribs cried out in torment with each desperate breath.
Yet she tried.
Her hands pushed into the soggy dirt as she dragged herself forward. With each inch gained, another bolt of pain surged through her system. The rain had started falling, the ground growing slick around her.
The trees receded around her, their shapes consumed by the storm.
She didn't know how long she crawled—minutes, hours, forever—but her body weakened with each passing moment.
And then, finally, she fell against the trunk of a gnarled oak, her head falling back against the ridged bark.
She couldn't go any farther.
She could hardly keep her eyes open.
The storm roared overhead, wind screaming, rain slashing at her flesh. The chill crept into her bones, enveloping her in an unyielding grip.
Amelia closed her eyes.
For the first time in years, she allowed herself to be weak.
And then—darkness claimed her.