Chapter 2: Where the road leads

She sat up slowly, wincing as the cuts on her arms pulled against her skin. The man in the driver's seat glanced over, his face softening with relief.

"Hi, miss. I'm glad you're awake. I found you in the woods last night near the road. You were unconscious."

"I remember half of that," Mary said, her voice rough with sleep. She rubbed her eyes, trying to piece together the rest. "I didn't get your name."

"Sorry—my name's Arthur. Arthur Ironcled. And you are?"

"Mary Bennett."

"Very pleased to know you, Mary Bennett."

She looked out the window at the passing fields, still damp from the storm. "So where are we going?"

"I'm headed to Kingston."

Mary's heart gave a hard, sudden thump. Kingston. The city she'd been running toward when her legs gave out, when the world had gone dark. She kept her face still, didn't let the excitement bleed through. "Wow. That's where I was headed as well."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "But what were you going to travel with? It's a really long road, and you came from the woods. There weren't any buses at that hour."

"I was going to figure it out. I always do."

"You've been to Kingston?"

"Yes."

"Well then. That's good."

Mary turned back to the window so he wouldn't see the lie in her eyes. She'd never been anywhere. Greyridge was all she'd known, and now she was hurtling toward a city she'd only dreamed about, in a car driven by a stranger who'd found her half-dead in a ditch.

She didn't know why she'd lied. Pride, maybe. Or the fear that if she admitted how lost she truly was, he'd see her as a burden.

She closed her eyes and let the motion of the car pull her back under.

Arthur kept his eyes on the road, but he kept glancing at her too. The way her dark lashes rested against her cheeks. The curve of her jaw. The mess of curly brown hair that had dried in tangled waves around her shoulders. She was beautiful—not in the polished way of the women he'd grown up around, but in a real, unguarded way. Like someone who hadn't yet learned to hide herself.

He knew she was lying about Kingston. It was in the way she'd paused before answering, the way her gaze had flickered away. He'd spent his whole life reading people—courtiers, diplomats, servants who smiled while they schemed. Mary Bennett was an open book compared to them.

But he didn't call her out. There was something about her that made him want to let her keep her secrets for now.

They reached Kingston in the late afternoon. The city rose up around them in a sprawl of brick and glass, traffic humming, people moving along the sidewalks in steady streams. Mary stirred as the car slowed.

"Hey." Arthur's voice was gentle as he touched her shoulder. "We're here."

She blinked, sitting up and looking around. Her eyes went wide. "Oh, wow. This place is beautiful."

"I thought you said you'd been here."

"I have. It just—" She faltered, then recovered. "It knows how to surprise me with its beauty every time."

Arthur said nothing. He'd seen the hesitation, the flicker of embarrassment she tried to hide. He pulled into the parking garage beneath his building and cut the engine.

"Here we are."

Mary looked up at the modern high-rise through the windshield. "Wow. Is this your place?"

"Yep. Let's head inside, shall we?"

"Wait." She didn't move. "What am I doing here?"

Arthur turned to face her fully. "I thought it would be a good idea to bring you here so I can take care of those cuts. They look really bad, Mary."

"But you don't even know me."

He smiled, a small, easy thing. "Come on. If you were harmful, I'd know that by now."

She studied him for a long moment, searching his face for something—she wasn't sure what. Then she nodded slowly. "Fine. But I'll leave after you take care of the cuts."

"Absolutely."

They rode the elevator up in silence. When the doors opened into his apartment, Mary stepped inside and stopped. The place was huge—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a kitchen with marble counters, furniture that looked both expensive and lived-in. Warm light spilled across the hardwood floors.

"This place is beautiful," she breathed.

"Thank you." Arthur set her duffel bag by the front door. "I think you should go take a shower. I'll prepare something to eat, and then we'll take care of those cuts."

"That sounds really good right now."

He directed her down the hall to the guest bathroom. The shower was hot and endless, and Mary stood under the spray for a long time, letting the water wash away the mud and the blood and the memory of her mother's voice. When she finally stepped out, she toweled her hair dry and opened her bag.

She'd packed in a hurry, grabbing whatever was at hand. The dress she pulled out was her finest—a deep blue one she'd saved for special occasions that had never come. She slipped it on, smoothed the fabric over her hips, and caught her reflection in the mirror.

She looked different. Older, maybe. Or just more awake.

When she walked into the kitchen, Arthur was at the stove, stirring something that smelled like garlic and tomatoes. He looked up, and the spoon went still in his hand.

"Wow." He blinked, seeming to catch himself. "You look—I'm sorry. That was weird."

Mary felt heat rise to her cheeks. "It's okay. Thank you."

They ate at the small table by the window, the city lights beginning to flicker on below them. The conversation came easily—too easily, maybe. She told him about Greyridge without telling him why she'd left. He told her he was a doctor without telling her anything else. They laughed at the same things, and every time their eyes met, something passed between them that neither of them named.

After dinner, Arthur fetched a first aid kit and sat beside her on the couch. He worked carefully, cleaning the cuts on her arms, applying antiseptic, stitching the deepest one with steady hands.

"You're really good at your job" Mary said, watching him

"Stitching and cleaning wounds isn't a big issue"

"Wow, you were meant for it "

" Thank you, no one has ever complimented on how I do my job"

" You don't need compliments or other people's opinions to define how good you are Arthur "

Arthur gave her a warm smile, seeing that she was smart. Soon after Arthur was done with the cuts, Mary stood up and hugged Arthur

" Thank you so much for what you did for me, I'll never forget you " still holding on to Arthur

With a low voice " You don't have to thank me Mary" gently holding her waist

Mary then pulled back and turned away to the door, but before she could even touch the knob, it dawned on her that she didn't have anything or anyone out there and her heart raced a little as she picked up her duffel bag

"Mary."

She turned. Arthur was standing in the middle of the room, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"You've never been to Kingston, have you?"

Mary's face flushed. She looked down at the floor. "No. I've never."

"Do you have a place to stay?"

"No."

"Why don't you stay here?"

"No—you've already done so much."

"And I'm willing to do more, if you'd just allow me." He took a step closer. "You can stay for as long as you need, Mary. You don't have to feel embarrassed."

Mary felt tears prick at her eyes. She crossed the room and hugged him again, tighter this time, her face pressed against his chest.

"Thank you. This means so much to me."

"You don't have to thank me, Mary."

He led her to a room down the hall—a guest room with a queen bed and its own bathroom and a window that looked out over the glittering city. She stood in the doorway, taking it in, unable to believe it was real.

Arthur lingered in the hallway. "If you need anything, I'm just down the hall."

"Thank you, Arthur."

He nodded, smiled, and closed the door softly behind him.

Mary sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room. She'd left Greyridge with nothing but a bag and a broken dream. Now she was in a stranger's apartment, wearing her best dress, her cuts stitched and clean, a future she couldn't see stretching out ahead of her.

She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time in days, she felt something like hope.

Down the hall, Arthur stood in his own room, his hand resting on the doorknob. He'd spent his whole life running from one kind of cage or another—his father's expectations, the kingdom's demands, the princess they'd chosen for him. He'd thought freedom was a place you went. But standing in that hallway, listening to the faint sounds of Mary moving in the guest room, he began to wonder if it was a person instead.

He hadn't told her who he really was. He hadn't told her about Camelot, or the crown, or Isabella.

But as he undressed and lay down in the dark, he found himself thinking about the way Mary had looked at him across the dinner table—like he was just a man, not a prince, not a prize. And he knew, with a certainty that sat heavy in his chest, that keeping that secret would be the hardest thing he'd ever done