Chapter Two
Calliope breathed in the comforting brightness when she entered her shop, The Whispering Wick, the next morning after a quick stroll, Prince trotting beside her, his claws clicking on the hardwood floor as he padded around the shop, sniffing the rows of candles stacked neatly on the shelves that lined two walls—his ritual before settling in the corner on his pillow.
Sun poured through the large arched window.
Ah, daylight.
Calliope could scarcely believe she wasn’t shackled to a hopeless life anymore. She had claimed this little piece of the world, and it didn’t belong to anyone but her.
She swept a quick gaze over the snug space.
Real. It was very much real.
The left side of the shop held simpler, more affordable, day-to-day use candles wrapped in paper and tied with ribbons.
Even simpler ones were arranged in glass jars.
Along the right, finer, more exotic scented candles were carefully arranged.
Beneath the shelves, drawers held more stock.
She had spent the months in her former abode creating them, and if it hadn’t been for Mr. Fitz, this would not have been possible.
Her shoulders drooped.
Mr. Rollings as well . . .
She strode over to the counter and slumped over it, her eyes landing on the leatherbound ledger, a quill resting beside a small inkpot. Right, she should pen a letter to Mr. Fitz sooner rather than later.
Prince nudged her hand, his dark eyes filled with canine affection, and she reached out to scratch behind his ears. “Everything is going to be fine. More than fine.”
The words, spoken aloud, soothed the anxiety left by last night.
Not fully. But some.
After all, the bruises on her knees from the fall served as an annoying reminder.
Who would have thought that only hours ago, she’d been racing down the dark streets of her new neighborhood.
She’d barely escaped with her skin intact—it certainly felt as such!
—and while she would like nothing more than to forget about the entire affair, those ruthless men were still out there somewhere. Perhaps still searching for her.
Calliope only hoped that during their pursuit of her, Mr. Rollings had managed to slip away. How lucky that would be! However, she now knew he had dealings with dangerous people. Could she do business again with him again knowing this?
She didn’t believe so.
But that didn’t mean she wanted the man to die.
“I should just forget about it.” She glanced at Prince, now stretched out lazily at her feet. “There’s no reason to ever encounter them again.” She certainly wouldn’t venture into the streets at night again!
Prince lifted his head to look at her before dropping his head to his paws again with a heavy sigh, as if exasperated by her constant misadventures. Hah! A dog’s sigh truly did embody the truest air of disappointment.
“Oh, don’t act so put upon. I’m still here, aren’t I? And you had some extra snacks last night because of my fortunate escape. Be grateful.”
Prince twitched one ear in response, as if to indicate he’d prefer his treats without the threat of mortal peril next time, thank you very much.
She smiled, shaking her head.
The doorbell jingled, and after last night, the sound pierced sharp and jarring. She turned. “Good . . .”—her smile faltered and a prickling awareness skittered over her scalp—“morning.”
A man filled the doorway.
But not just your average, everyday man.
This one was tall and unmoving. A shadow carved in black.
Not merely dressed in black, though he was, he wore the color like midnight had chosen him.
Hair. Eyes. The gloves on his hands. A jagged scar split his lip, sharpening his look into a promise of feral danger.
Everything about him seemed sculpted from the night.
Call it instinct, since she hadn’t met many men in her life, but he wore himself with the ease of one well acquainted with domination.
But it wasn’t this that thoroughly unsettled her, rather, the way he stood, still as a predator, danger clinging to him like a second skin, and all his focus trained on her.
Also, he was absurdly handsome.
Calliope!
Right. Danger.
How was she supposed to respond to a man staring at her with the air between them crackling akin to thunder?
“Good morning,” he finally returned, his tone a low, hoarse growl that barely qualified as civil.
Her blood turned to ice.
That voice. She knew that voice.
She felt the cadence in her bones before she placed the sound in her mind. Her stomach twisted, not just in dread, but with something deeper. Something far too complicated to dissect in this space and time. Perhaps in any space and time.
The memory of the previous night surged back in vivid, terrifying clarity.
No.
No, it couldn’t be.
Instinct howled warnings to the pulse beneath her skin.
This was the man who’d chased her last night.
Calliope’s breath trapped between her heart and her lips. She forced her face into what she hoped was her carefully crafted shop owner’s smile, trying her best to keep her tone as unruffled as possible. “Can I help you, sir?”
He took a step inside, his sharp gaze sweeping over her shelves with a detachment that almost raised her hackles.
The door shutting behind him sent another shudder through her, and she shot a quick glance at Prince, but the hound merely lifted his head at the man and dropped his muzzle back onto his paws.
Some help you are, you big traitor.
“A candle shop.” His dark eyes circled back to meet hers. “Interesting.”
Er, what could possibly be so interesting about a candle shop? Unless he suspected she was the person from last night? But how? Had they glimpsed her enter here and allowed her a false sense of victory? Questions flooded her mind, each one more terrifying than the last.
No, Calliope.
She couldn’t lose her nerve. Not before the axe fell on her neck. Only then.
“Indeed,” she murmured. She could feel the strain around the corners of her smile, so she moved behind the counter to distract herself, placing a rather obvious amount of distance between them.
He seemed unbothered, but she sensed amusement from him, though she couldn’t be sure.
Humor certainly didn’t show on his face.
Or his eyes. “Would you perhaps like to purchase a batch of candles?”
Not even a twitch. “I’m not here as a customer.”
Lord, oh, lord.
“Oh?” Prince, seeming to pick up on her discomfort, rose to his feet, staring the man with ears pricked. Good boy. “Then what brings you to my humble candle shop?”
The dark devil didn’t waste any time in reaching into his coat, and a jolt of fear dashed through her.
How could it not? The man was . . . something else.
A being of his own. Would he pull out a pistol?
A dagger? But instead of a weapon, he withdrew something small and delicate, holding the object up between his fingers.
A slipper.
Her slipper.
But not just any slipper. The satin footwear was the only item she still owned from that house. A symbol of the girl who had escaped a nightmare. The girl who dreamed. The girl who claimed her freedom. The sight hit her like a stone to the chest, and she nearly snatched her shoe from him in horror.
Fortunately, she caught herself just in time.
Do not reveal yourself!
The man’s gaze sharpened nonetheless.
Urgh. She couldn’t be sure for he said not a word. Just stared.
And stared.
No. Studied.
She cleared her throat. Get hold of yourself, Calliope. “Why are you showing me a shoe?”
“It’s my hope that you might recognize who the slipper belongs to and point me to its owner.”
How casually framed. And stars, she hated the way the roughness of his voice threaded along her nerves.
Focus!
How had her shoe ended up in his hand in the first place?
Calliope racked her brain. It must have slipped from her satchel when she tripped. She could find no other possible explanation. What rotten luck was this? She wanted to groan at this colossal error. “That, unfortunately, I cannot do.” Or else . . .
He smiled without smiling. More a feeling than a sight, and not a pleasant one at that. Black pools bore into her. “Are you certain you don’t recognize this?”
“Why should I? Because I’m a woman?” She didn’t give him time to respond. “What a hopelessly insufferable thing to imply.”
“So, you do not recognize it, then?” he pressed without so much as acknowledging her remarks.
This man! “I do not.”
He arched an equally insufferable black brow. “Perhaps you could try the shoe on. Just to be sure.”
Calliope’s jaw slackened. Surely he had not asked her that? “I shall most certainly not do that. Who knows where that slipper’s been.” She knew exactly where. She only prayed he didn’t.
“No need to bristle, Miss Turner. It’s just a shoe.”
The adopted last name was still jostling to hear. Wait. “How do you know my name?”
He slid her slipper back into his coat, eyes never leaving hers. “I didn’t come here just for a shoe, Miss Turner. There’s another matter between us.”
Impossible. “What else could there possibly be between us?” Except distance. A lot of distance.
“The matter of property,” he announced. “I am your landlord.”
Her eyes flew wide. “No, you are not.”
“Yes, Miss Turner, I am.”
But if that were true . . . A horrible realization settled over her. He was Mr. Fury? He, as in the man, the beast, from last night? Her landlord?
“You are . . .”
“Maxen Fury. The arrangement your solicitor made was with my brother. Without my permission, I should add.”
Her lips parted but no words formed.
Mr. Fitz handled her secret inheritance, helped with her lodgings, and all the matters of setting up her shop while she adapted to her new world. All the new possibilities open to her.
Escaping that household had taken priority over everything else.
But even now, even free, it seemed that others still held the keys.
“I see.”