Chapter Seven
Two days and nights passed in a flash. Three if one counted this night.
Nary a sight of her landlord.
However, the sense of his presence never left. It brooded in the corners of her shop like unfinished business waiting to be begun again. It brought her no ease.
Not in her skin.
Not in her bones.
Every time the bell above the shop chimed, her breath caught—just slightly, very slightly—before she could command it otherwise. Her body knew before her mind had the chance to remind it that they were safe, that he was gone, that Maxen Fury had no reason to return.
Because still she felt him.
Mostly in her dreams. It seemed they had decided that the beast was the object for their entertainment, and her torture. She hadn’t had another like that, thank stars, but sleep had become a slippery, restless thing.
All because of that man.
Both a promise and a warning.
She was coming to find that was the most dangerous of combinations. Which led her to the most curious question. If Maxen Fury could be molded into a candle, what scent would he carry?
Spiced rum, perhaps? With a hint of charred tobacco? Topped with a hint of black leather.
Mmm.
No, Calliope! Absolutely not.
She was done with people who wielded too much power.
Done with danger.
Done with anyone who looked at her like she was a threat that needed handling or a pawn to be controlled. Or, God forbid, a man looking at her like she was a secret worth uncovering.
Lord.
He was just such a man.
In fact, he was all of the aforementioned.
And if she didn’t nip her curiosity in the bud, she might start looking for him in every shadow.
Too late, Calliope.
No. Not too late. Rather, just in time.
She sighed, blinking up to the ceiling. Easier said than done. Already her mind catalogued her vials of scented oil. They didn’t bottle the scent of black leather, so how to mirror it?
A deep, low growl rumbled through the room.
Calliope jerked upright. Prince stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on the bedroom door. “Prince?” But the hound didn’t so much as flick an ear at her voice. He growled again, this time deeper, sounding harsh in the quiet night.
She cocked her head to listen.
Calliope heard nothing at first. Nothing after several beats. Then . . .
A muffled thud.
Her eyes shot wide and she scrambled from her bed to drop to her knees, placing her ear on the ground, listening carefully. Had that come from her place? Downstairs?
Another muffled sound.
For stars’ sake! There was someone in her shop!
What on earth did she do? She couldn’t think past the pulse thundering in her ears. She lifted her head slowly, barely daring to breathe. Prince’s growl remained low, protectively stationed between her and whatever danger prowled below.
Her gaze flew to the window.
Was it too high to jump from? No. She couldn’t jump with Prince. Nor without. The door? Dare she sneak out back? But if she stepped onto the stairwell, she might alert the intruder.
No. No. No.
Could it be Duvessa? Her men? Had they found her? Had she been recognized in town? Followed? Had something happened to Mr. Fitz? Had he betrayed her? Had one of the servants?
She had taken every precaution. She had been careful. And Mr. Fitz was the last person on earth who’d betray her.
Do you know for certain?
No. There was no one on this earth she could trust with so much certainty. Not beyond any shadow of doubt. She had abandoned her old name, hadn’t contacted anyone from London but Clemence, and even Clemence wrote in riddles. And Mr. Fitz.
Just hang on a little longer.
Years of dealing with Duvessa and those nasty daughters of hers had taught her to keep calm. That calmness meant safety. Meant survival. And so she obeyed the instinct drilled deep into her bones.
Only, it didn’t work.
Calliope! This is not a closet! Or the attic! This is life or death!
Right.
She crouched beside the bed, one hand clutching the leg of the frame, the other pressed to her chest. Her heart beat against her palm like it wanted to flee without her.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
She wasn’t meant for this kind of fear. She wasn’t strong like the women she admired in the novels she read. Or the women who so confidently entered her shop. Calliope’s way had always been to endure. To wait until the storm passed.
But what if this storm didn’t? What if this storm was the very end?
Of her.
Prince.
By blazes, no. She refused to let this be her end! However, her body wouldn’t move. Not even the hand clutching her heart shifted an inch.
Her gaze caught on something beside Prince.
One of the boots she’d tossed aside after she’d settled in for the night.
The image of her slipper popped into her head, and the memory of him holding her slipper, casually sliding it into his coat like it belonged there.
The memory gave her a reckless sort of courage.
She forced her limbs to obey and rose on unsteady legs, crossing space and collected the boot.
Not the best of weapons, but she could slam it against the wall that separated her from her neighbor, from him, and hope he heard.
Prince’s growl changed, softer now. Lower.
Not a good sign.
A noise exploded from below. Glass shattering? She stumbled backward, her legs striking the bed frame. What on earth was happening down there? Weren’t intruders stealthier?
Hide. You know how to hide.
Her skin crawled with the thought, the memories it drew to the surface.
Not that way. Not anymore.
She hurried over to the door, plastering herself against the wall beside it, clutching the boot tightly.
And waited.
Prince padded to her side silently, his body pressed close. “Good boy,” she murmured, patting his head.
Footsteps creaked.
So the intruder intended to intrude upstairs as well. She had hoped . . . never mind. She glanced at Prince. Two against one.
The sound came again. Patient. Steady. Closer.
Calliope pressed her back harder against the wall, clutching the boot like a lifeline. Her entire body was ice and fire—numb, but burning. She had never before fought.
Hide. Be silent. Wait to be spared. Not defend.
But this was her shop. Hers. And Prince . . .What would happen to him if something happened to her? Nothing! Because she refused to allow anything to happen to her.
No more hiding.
No more freezing.
No more letting the storm swallow her whole.
By blazes—no.
She had come too far to allow her sense of peace to be stolen in such a manner.
Fear had always taught her how to endure, how to wait out the storm, how to make herself small until it passed, but this was her shop.
Her life. And Prince’s. Whatever waited on the other side of that door, she would not greet it hiding in the shadows or frozen in place.
She drew in a careful breath and held fast to it, bracing herself.
The latch clicked, and the door creaked open, and Calliope saw a shadow fall across the floorboards of her chamber.
A heavy step.
A dark coat.
A booted leg.
Without thinking, she let out a wild cry and swung the boot with all the force she had, slamming it directly into the man. To her utter shock, and surprise, he crumpled with a pained grunt, folding to his knees with a groan so raw she flinched.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, panting, heart in her throat.
Why did he look so . . .?
Furious eyes met her.
“Maxen?”
*
Pain boomed through every part of Maxen’s body.
A gut-splitting, soul-leaving, what-the-devil-just-happened kind of pain. It exploded from his groin and spread like fire through his stomach, his spine, his very teeth. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could barely see.
Just stars, burning, blinking stars.
And her.
“What the bloody—?” he choked out, cupping the site of impact. Sweet Christ. Every instinct screamed for him to topple, curl, and protect. He swallowed the string of curses working their way up his throat and forced himself to focus, jaw locked hard enough to crack his damn teeth.
A boot dropped to the floor before him.
Ah. So he’d been assaulted with a boot.
Calliope bloody Turner.
She stood staring at him bright-eyed, her breath ragged, her cheeks flushed with either terror or fury—or both. Her dog growled behind her like a guard summoned straight from Hades. But he did not attack him.
He ought to be grateful for small mercies.
Maxen squinted up at her. “Good aim, love.”
She blinked at him as if dazed, then hurriedly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit something vital. That is, I did, but I didn’t aim for that. I just hit.”
“If I stand, will your dog attack?”
“Uh, no.” She glanced to the hound. “Prince.” The dog instantly settled. She patted his head. “Good boy.”
Maxen slowly rose to his feet. Well, mostly. The nauseating throb still pounded at him. “Thank you.”
“You’re the one with explaining to do, Mr. Landlord. Is it customary to break into tenants’ shops? Should I call for the authorities?”
Authorities? Maxen couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I am the authorities.”
Her eyes rolled heavenward. God help him, what a sight. He almost reached out to snatch a strand of her hair, which tumbled over her shoulders to her waist, drawing his attention to her near-transparent nightgown.
He should have thought this over.
“You believe my words arrogance.”
“Not even you can deny they sound like arrogance.”
“They remain fact.”
She studied him, and he stiffened against the damnable urge to puff himself up like a peacock. The sensation of her attention crept along his spine, setting his nerves on edge and leaving him acutely conscious of the invading sense that she was deciding something about him.
“Well, well, well,” a drawl came from behind them, “this must be the first time in my life I’ve heard you laugh, frère.”
Maxen cursed, shifting to block his brother’s view, tossing over his shoulder, “I told you to stay downstairs.”
Reaper, blade dangling from one hand, his coin dancing over the knuckles of the other, appeared with the relaxed menace of a man who enjoyed chaos just a little too damn much.
“Reaper.”
“What? I couldn’t resist following.” His brother’s focus shifted, trying to see around him to Calliope. “Sounded like you were dying there. Thought I’d missed something good. Now I know I did.”
Bloody hell.
“What about the man downstairs?”
“The bald one Rollings outed?” Reaper shrugged “Tied up like a sack of potatoes. Couldn’t put up much of a fight.”
“Rollings?” Calliope exclaimed. “He is alive?”
Maxen’s attention snapped back to her, meeting her delighted, but astonished gaze. He scowled. “Why would you think he wasn’t alive?”
“Oh.” Her lips parted and closed before she said, “I, uh, purchased oil from him but he never delivered my last order. I thought something might’ve . . . happened to him.”
Plausible.
Matched Rollings’s tale.
However, why would she presume something had happened to Rollings if she didn’t know a speck of his profession? Perhaps bore witness to something she shouldn’t have? “I see.”
“So this is the little mouse,” Reaper piped up from the back. “Our wily spy.”
“Stand down, Reaper,” Maxen warned.
“I can’t even get a glance?” his brother lamented. “How disappointing.”
“Enough,” Maxen snapped.
“A spy?” came Calliope’s shocked exclamation. “You believe me to be a spy?”
Maxen sighed.
“Oh dear,” Reaper murmured. “I was not supposed to say that, was I?” At Maxen’s glare, he stepped back. “No need for violence, frère, I’ll leave the little mouse to you.”
“Who is that and why is he calling me little mouse?” Calliope demanded. “I am not a mouse!”
A drink would be good right about now. “Handle the bald one,” Maxen instructed his brother.
“Done.”
Only when Reaper disappeared, did he say to the bristling woman before him, “Don’t listen to him. He belongs in Bedlam.”
Her gaze cut through him. “I have so many questions, but first, who broke into my shop?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Calliope?” He stared.
And she stared right back.
So small. So furious. So utterly unwilling to back down.
Whatever this woman was caught in, and he had no doubt she was caught in something, had bled into his world.
And that made her his. Now, more than ever, he couldn’t let her out of his sight.
Not until he understood exactly who she was and what she might drag here with her.
“How would I know that?” Her incredulous look almost made him smile. “I was upstairs. Ready for sleep. Until someone disturbed my peace!”
“I am merely asking, love.”
“Don’t call me love.” She smoothed some wayward locks back. “It’s disconcerting.”
It felt rather natural for him. “It’s just a question.” Love.
“It’s never just a question with you, is it? Well, I don’t know who that bald man is, and I’m not a spy.” Her gaze broke away, then charged back again. “I heard glass break. What happened?”
Another thorn in his arse. “An unfortunate scuffle.” He didn’t add that the broken glass had come from throwing the man across the room and into the door.
She scrunched her brow. “Then should I find another accommodation.”
“That would be best.” He cursed the words rolling off his tongue but didn’t swallow them back. “You’ll come with me.”
A stunned expression crossed her face. “What do you mean with you?”
Yes, you fool, what did you mean by that? “You’ll stay with me next door. It’s not safe here.”
She stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Perhaps he had.
“You can’t be serious.”
Maxen folded his arms, ignoring the slow throb still pulsing through his balls. “I’m always serious.”
The woman didn’t move. Didn’t respond. Simply watched him with that guarded, assessing look he was beginning to become familiar with.
“If you’re trying to intuit whether this is a trap,” he said softly, “it’s not. You’re not nearly a threat enough to warrant one.”
That earned him a snort. “How reassuring.”
Maxen didn’t smile, but it was close. “Pack a bag, Calliope. You’re staying with me.”