The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 421

Chapter 421: I Hope Your Sheep Are Happy

The stopping was sudden, forceful, the kind of stop that happened when horses encountered a reason to stop that outranked their rider’s instructions. Guinevere was thrown forward off the bench, catching herself on the bars with her manacled hands and colliding with the iron at a velocity that was going to leave marks.

"Oh, fantastic," she said from the floor of the carriage. "Now we’ve stopped. In the middle of a road. In a forest. This is exactly how horror stories begin, Bertram. I want you to know that if we are about to be murdered, I am going to be very annoyed about it."

Smoke.

The smell arrived before the visual. Thick, acrid, carrying the chemical signature of a mage-crafted incendiary rather than a natural fire. The smoke poured through the trees from both sides of the road, filling the air between the carriage and the guards with a grey opacity that reduced visibility to arm’s length.

Shouting. The guards were shouting. Steel was being drawn. Horses were panicking, their hooves stamping the road with the frantic percussion of animals whose instincts were screaming run and whose training was screaming hold.

Impact. The carriage rocked sideways as a body hit the frame from the outside. A guard’s voice cut short mid-word. Another impact. Another voice silenced.

Guinevere pressed herself against the back of the carriage, her manacled hands gripping the bars, her eyes scanning the smoke for shapes. Bertram had stood, his massive frame filling his half of the carriage, his gentle shepherd eyes carrying an expression that was closer to confusion than fear, because Bertram had survived aggressive sheep and tax audits and his threat assessment matrix was calibrated differently than most people’s.

The lock on the carriage door exploded inward. The bar mechanism shattered, the iron twisting like foil, and the door swung open into smoke and chaos.

A figure appeared in the doorway. Armed. Masked. Moving with the practiced efficiency of a mercenary who had done this before and intended to do it quickly.

"Guinevere Ashford?"

"That depends entirely on who is asking and whether the answer affects my survival."

"You’re being extracted. Move."

Guinevere did not move. Guinevere assessed. The assessment was rapid, comprehensive, the reflexive evaluation of a woman who had grown up in a family where surprise rescues could be genuine rescues or elaborate traps and the distinction required data.

"Extracted by whom?"

"Move. Now. The mage screen holds for three more minutes."

Guinevere moved. She stepped through the carriage door into smoke so thick she could taste it, her manacled hands in front of her, her slippers hitting the dirt road, her senses processing the chaos: downed guards, scattered horses, the residual hum of mage-work vibrating in the air.

She turned back to the carriage.

"Bertram. Come on."

Bertram had seated himself back on the bench. His massive hands were folded in his lap. His posture was the posture of a man who had evaluated the situation and arrived at a conclusion that differed from his companion’s.

"I am going to stay here, I think."

"What?"

"Mine was really a mistake. I miscounted the herd deductions. I am going to serve my time and appeal when the auditor reviews my documentation." He shifted on the bench. "I am truly not a rule breaker. My wife would be very disappointed."

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