Below is a sneak peek of my fourth book, which is still a work in progress:

The carriage door burst open with a jarring slam. Mr. Bell stood in the doorway, clutching his bloodied shoulder, his face pale and tight with fear. He leaned inside, breath ragged, voice trembling but urgent.

“My ladies, we must get you to safety! Those men from the inn have ambushed us. Hurry—into the forest, we must take cover!”

Every word landed heavy, weighted with panic and pain.

Kendra sat frozen, her hands trembling in her lap. Dia didn’t hesitate. She gripped the groom’s outstretched hand, sprang down, and turned to haul Kendra to her feet.

“Come, my lady!” she urged, her voice taut with urgency.

Mr. Bell pointed toward the trees. “We need to run! Don’t stop until you’re deep in the forest!”

They sprinted towards the woods, skirts snagging on brambles, rain pelting their backs. Dia threw a glance over her shoulder.

Mr. Frey lay sprawled in the mud, a burly attacker straddling his chest—and staring straight at her. Her breath caught. It was him. The same man who asked for her name.

A gunshot cracked through the air, drawing her gaze toward the coach. Through the sheets of rain, she caught a flicker of movement—the coachman staggered, then dropped out of sight behind the wheel. The horses reared and whinnied, and the unmanned barouche lurched forward, vanishing down the road without them. Her stomach turned. Something had struck him. Hard.

She looked back at the attacker, who lurched toward her—but Mr. Bell threw all his weight against him, buying them precious seconds.

“Go!” he shouted. “Run and hide!”

Terror surged through Dia, but she forced her legs to move, gripping Kendra’s hand and dragging her into the shelter of the trees.

Both ladies were fit by society’s standards—accustomed to brisk walks and early morning rides—but this was no graceful gallop or curated promenade. This was flight. Panic. A mad sprint through brambles and rising mud with death on their heels.

Kendra lagged behind, her breath coming in ragged sobs. Her slippers, soaked through and heavy with muck, slipped on the uneven ground. She clutched at her pelisse, chest heaving, each step more sluggish than the last.

“Dia—please—” she gasped, stumbling again. “I can’t—I can’t breathe!”

Dia stopped just long enough to grab Kendra’s arm and yank her upright with a strength born of fear. “You can,” she said, voice sharp with urgency. “You must. Just a little farther—come on!”

Kendra whimpered but obeyed, her curls plastered to her cheeks, her face streaked with rain and panic.

Rain lashed down in punishing sheets, each drop a needle against Dia’s skin. Her cloak clung to her like a wet shroud, dragging at her shoulders. The forest writhed around them, branches reaching like claws, trunks looming like prison bars.

Each step was a battle. The ground squelched beneath her feet, mud clinging with greedy weight. Slick roots jutted from the earth like bones, and more than once, Dia stumbled, catching herself before she fell. The air was thick with damp bark and fear. The forest felt alive—watching, waiting, hunting.

Thunder cracked overhead, not distant anymore but directly above. It rolled through the trees like a growl, shaking the ground beneath her boots and echoing in her ribs. It matched the frantic rhythm of her pulse, fast and brutal.

Dia couldn’t remember the last full breath she’d taken. Her lungs strained, her legs burned, but she pushed forward, every step an act of defiance. The cold had sunk into her bones, not just from the rain—but from terror. It numbed her fingers and curled down her spine like frost.

For half a second, Dia pulled them behind a great tree trunk, wide as a doorframe, its roots slick and swollen from rain.

“Catch your breath,” she hissed, pressing Kendra gently against the bark.

“I can’t,” Kendra whimpered. “Dia—I can’t go anymore.”

“Yes, you can. Just count to ten with me. One… two…”

They didn’t make it to five.

Somewhere behind them, a branch snapped. Not thunder. Not wind. Something closer. She didn’t turn to look. She didn’t dare to see if it was animal or human.

“Keep moving,” she whispered—whether to Kendra or herself, she wasn’t sure. “Keep moving.”

The trees thickened, their limbs locking above like a cage. Shadows folded in, filled with imagined figures darting between trunks. Every creak of wood sounded like pursuit.

Her foot slipped on moss-slick stone, and she caught herself with a hand braced on a tree. The bark was slimy, rain-slick, alive. Kendra cried out behind her, but Dia didn’t stop. Wouldn’t.

Keep going. Just a little farther.