Chapter Four
The following afternoon
The bell above the inn door gave a prim jangle as Calliope stepped onto the street after posting her letter, relieved it was no longer burning a hole in her reticule. She’d half expected her landlord to leap from the shadows, seize her belongings, and discover the truth.
He hadn’t, thank the sun and stars.
And posting news to Mr. Fitz had been easy enough.
However, something else blazed in her reticule like a cursed relic. Satin. Flat-soled. Impossibly incriminating.
The thought made her wince. She hadn’t wanted to leave her shop with the slipper. Just the thought felt like peeling skin from bone. But she had no choice.
She would not—could not—live under the shadow of fear.
From Maxen Fury.
The landlord. The beast. The darkness personified. A thorn wedged most rudely in her otherwise perfect new beginning. A man whose shadow seemed to swallow the sunlight and block out her stars.
And he had her slipper.
It wasn’t just that he’d found it. It was how he had looked at it—like a man unearthing a secret. Like he already knew it was hers. The man was suspicious. Too perceptive by half.
But no matter.
Today, she was clever. Careful. Invisible.
She would rid herself of the other half of that blasted pair of slippers and erase the evidence before the beast sniffed out the truth.
Who knew what he would do in his quest to find the culprit of that night.
Her imagination also wasn’t of any help!
Would he break in and rifle through her belongings? Something more nefarious?
Her shoulders crept up in revulsion.
Who’s overly suspicious now, Calliope?
Well. She was.
And frankly, she considered it prudent.
Dark eyes swam in her mind.
Ah, stars.
Why did the man have to be so sinfully, wickedly, uncomfortably handsome?
It wasn’t until after she’d closed the shop yesterday that she’d let herself feel the full impression he’d left behind.
Not just the obvious things—danger, damnation, destruction—but something else.
Something that seemed to linger right beneath her skin.
The way her breath had wanted to catch each time he looked at her—not from fear, but, when she looked closer, from something far more foolish.
Recognition.
Not of him but of herself.
Of something inside her, bottled and waiting.
And the sound of his voice—it hadn’t threatened.
Well, it had—but the promise of his undertone had also stirred.
Rough and calm, yet it had traced through her like a whisper of a warning.
As though he were speaking not to her ears, but to something buried deep under layers of good sense.
A part of her she hadn’t known was paying attention.
And that scar? She’d tried her very best to ignore her curiosity, but she couldn’t help but wonder about its origin.
How had he gotten injured? It must have hurt terribly, mustn’t it?
Don’t be a fool, Calliope.
He’d gotten that scar doing underhanded things!
She’d be better off directing all her thoughts to Mr. Rollings and let him serve as a continuing reminder of what happened to those associated with her landlord and his cronies.
What might happen to her if she lost vigilance.
Look at how she had trembled after their two encounters!
If her landlord had been an ordinary man in ordinary circumstances, she might have believed the flutters to be something perilously close to attraction.
Calliope would love to believe she had more sense than that. No, those flutters had been instinct. A warning. The body’s natural response to a predator.
Most certainly not attraction.
In any case, what attraction could it be?
Despite her rather sheltered upbringing, she was no prude.
She loved books and stories and romantic tales.
How many times had she dreamed a powerful hero had rescued her from Duvessa all those nightmarish years?
But stars, Maxen Fury was no prince! A dark prince, perhaps.
Certainly not one who saved ladies from draconian stepmothers.
A ridiculous notion, truly. One man with a deep voice and a brooding stare and suddenly some buried part of her thought it recognized him?
What nonsense.
The breeze teased a strand of hair loose from her bonnet as she searched for the perfect spot to dump her slipper. She had scouted a dark, narrow alley earlier. One where a clever girl might consign a slipper to ruin.
Ah. There.
Her heart gave a hard thump. Not with guilt. Also not with anticipation. She couldn’t quite describe what she was feeling. It wasn’t just one thing, but several things so fused she couldn’t name the bundle of nerves gathering in the pit of her belly.
Let’s not think about that right now.
A prickling sensation kissed the back of her neck. Again. It had been doing that since he left her shop.
She paused and turned.
Besides people going about their business, a child darting across the street, and a shaggy dog sniffing at a wheelbarrow, nothing else.
Still.
That feeling.
A flicker of unease clung to the prickles on her neck.
An unmistakable itch. Calliope knew that feeling.
She’d lived with it for years—on stairs that creaked wrong, in rooms where doors locked from the outside, hearing whispers in corridors.
She had learned to trust the itch. To move before it became a snare. But that was in another life.
“See?” she muttered under her breath. “That man is already a disruption to your peace, and he’s not even here.”
How on earth was she going to get through the next six months?
Leave that man behind and let someone else fall under his unwanted scrutiny.
For now, it was time to rid herself of the curse in her reticule.
Calliope stopped beside the alley and reached into her bag for the slipper, her fingers circling the object, but she couldn’t move.
Her fingers curled, loosened, then curled around the slipper again.
Blast it.
Why was it suddenly so hard to let go of a shoe? This wasn’t about sentiment. She couldn’t cling to that forever. It wasn’t about . . . about him, either.
It was about erasing evidence.
So why did tossing the slipper away feel like casting off a piece of herself she hadn’t yet finished mourning?
Because it is proof.
Proof she’d escaped her fate.
Calliope swallowed hard, thumb brushing the fabric.
Then, instead of plucking the slipper out and disregarding it as she ought, she withdrew her hand.
She couldn’t do it.
Not yet. It hurt too much to do it in this very moment. Hurt in a way she couldn’t explain. This small, seemingly insignificant footwear was proof of where she’d been. Of what she had been willing to risk. And yes, in the wrong hands, it could undo everything.
Calliope wasn’t ready to erase that truth.
The road seemed to lengthen as she continued on her way. Her heart, on the other hand, had unburdened some. If she could survive Duvessa and her brood, she could survive anything.
The prickle on her neck flared once more.
Her steps softened, just as they had when she’d stolen moments of play outside, lowering her presence.
Necessity had taught her well. Years of practice had made moving without drawing notice almost second nature.
That didn’t mean she enjoyed honed responses.
No one should have to be good at shrinking smaller.
But still, that odd sensation chased her as she made her way back home.
She glanced over her shoulder again.
Still nothing.
Urh, Calliope! Of course no one was watching. Of course she hadn’t been followed. Her nerves were simply on edge from being upturned by that beast in black. Nothing more.
Her shoulders had just eased when a voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Miss Turner.”
*
Maxen didn’t believe in coincidences.
Coincidence was for the idle. The easily fooled. For those who believed the world unfolded in a slew of accidents and misunderstandings.
He knew better.
The world moved in intentions—some merciless as sharpened daggers, some soft as the finest spun silk. And this little tenant of his, weaving through the streets with purposeful steps, was a bloody atlas of intention.
Calliope Turner.
His gut had been right.
She was a bloody complication. A spark in a gunpowder barrel. Thankfully, he’d kept an eye on her even as the smarter half of him warned to stay away. He’d almost listened to that part. Almost. But when something snagged his attention like she did, there was no way to turn.
Deuced troublesome.
Trouble he didn’t know what to do about.
If she was a spy, she was a bloody good one.
Or the bloody worst. He honestly couldn’t tell.
On the one hand, she walked like someone used to being unnoticed—efficient, light-footed, vanishing between crowds and carts with impressive grace.
For all that, not perfect. She checked over her shoulder too often.
Noted the passersby too carefully. And most telling of all—she clutched her satchel like her life depended on the damn thing.
Perhaps it did.
What are you hiding, little tenant?
The tips of his fingers twitched.
He wanted to unearth every single secret she possessed. Wanted to unravel them all. And that . . . well that made her the most dangerous thing of all.
When she stopped beside the entrance of a narrow side street—an unremarkable slit between shops—he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, this was the climax of her little mission.
Her visit to the posting inn hadn’t rung any alarms. Since her solicitor had handled her lease, he’d expected her to inform him of their meeting.
But this stop here, this was ripe with suspicion.
He eased closer, careful not to arouse any notice.
Her hand disappeared beneath the flap of the bag. Interesting. Was she about to discard something? He waited, tension coiling tight with each second her hand stayed hidden from his view, but she didn’t withdraw anything.
Another heartbeat passed.
Another.
Then she pulled her hand from her bag and continued walking.
Maxen’s eyes narrowed.
What the devil was she doing?
“So, is she the mouse from that night, frère?”
Maxen grimaced, turning to find Reaper leaning against a stack of crates, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.
His brother had a way of appearing when least wanted.
And his use of the French word for brother made Maxen grit his teeth even as it had the maddening habit of softening his annoyance. Christ. “Are you following me?”
“What are you doing following her?”
“Don’t waste my time asking questions you already know the answers to.”
“Dagger is worried.”
“About what?” Maxen turned back to Calliope, and his face darkened when Peregrine appeared at her side.
A coincidence? He thought not.
His gut coiled tight when she smiled up at the arse.
“You’re following this mouse like a dog at her heels,” Reaper said, low but sharp. “He might have a point being worried.”
Maxen’s jaw tightened. His brother should get his eyesight examined. “Why? He’s the one who leased my property to her.”
“He says you have a look in your eye.”
“What bloody look?” Maxen’s gaze narrowed on Peregrine’s catlike smile. “I have no look.”
“At first, I had my doubts about our brother’s worries. Now, witnessing it firsthand, not so much.”
“Get out of my sight.”
“I’m not in your sight, frère.”
“You want to keep your teeth?” Maxen snapped. “Then leave.”
“Ah, I can’t do that now, can I? You have the look of a man who’s found a loose thread and can’t decide whether to pull it or set it on fire.”
“It’s still my thread.” At least until her lease ran out.
Reaper clicked his tongue. “You should know better, frère. Threads like her don’t unravel easy. They catch, twist, and turn into nooses.”
Well, that was his damn problem, was it not? His jaw worked as Peregrine leaned closer to Calliope, uttering some nonsense that made her laugh. The sort of laugh that belonged to someone playing a part.
Maxen knew all about parts. He’d worn enough faces in his life to know when someone else wore one too.
Calliope Turner was acting.
Always acting.
She reached up then, brushing something from the man’s lapel. Casual. Familiar. Nothing about that sat well with him. Nothing.
His fists clenched and unclenched. What in hell’s name was going on between those two?
“Mm.” Reaper stepped forward, boots crunching. “There it is again.”
“What?” Maxen snarled.
“That thing Dagger picked up on.”
Maxen tore his gaze from Calliope long enough to glare at his brother. “There is no thing. There is no look.”
Reaper arched his brow. Then, as though bored of the subject entirely, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Dagger wants you to pull back. Since he leased her the property, he’ll take responsibility for the mouse.”
A growl instantly erupted from his chest, and he turned away from his brother. “He can want all he likes. It’s not happening.”
“Think, frère. It’s better for you to leave this one for us.”
“Careful,” Maxen warned. “I will not tolerate interference.”
“Jesu,” Reaper muttered. “Fine, but do yourself a kindness, please. If you’re going to follow her, try not to look like a man on the brink.”
“I’m not on the brink.”
“No,” Reaper said. “You’re in the bloody chasm.”
“You have seconds to vanish.”
Reaper chuckled, flipping his coin into the air and catching it on the back of his palm.
Then he was gone. Just like that. Maxen didn’t even have to glance over his shoulder to confirm it—Reaper had been vanishing like that since he found him.
Still, his words held fast. Twisted.
He shook his head, refocused his attention.
However, Peregrine was gone.
As was she.
He cursed under his breath, low and vicious. When was the last time thoughts had distracted him to the point that he couldn’t damn well notice that his prey had slipped from his sight? Never. Until now.
He strode to the place she’d stopped, not bothering with caution as he approached the place she’d stood only moments ago. No trace of her remained. Not her scent. Not a damn footprint. Just the memory of that damn smile she’d given Peregrine.
A trifling thing. Nothing of consequence.
Yet it pressed upon him all the same.
Perhaps his brothers had a point. Perhaps he did have a certain look about him.
Perhaps he should step back and let them hunt for the owner of the slipper and pry into his tenant’s affairs.
But he couldn’t look away from her anymore.
Even if she wasn’t the owner of the slipper, she was hiding something, and since she lived under his roof, that roof, he couldn’t look away anyway.
And the devil take it, he had no desire to either.