Chapter Eight #2
“I noticed.” Drake’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been watching her like you were waiting for her to disappear.”
Had he? He couldn’t deny it. Ever since he met her that first day he’d been riveted to a degree. It was irrational. Infuriating. Unacceptable.
She was a stranger.
A complication.
A potential threat.
And yet. Bloody yet. All it had taken was a whispered thank you for a silent vow to burn Brighton down if anyone harmed her. Period.
“She’s not your problem,” Maxen clarified.
“She’s yours, which makes her mine.”
“She’s not yours,” the snap of a growl came before he could stop himself.
Drake gave a low whistle.
Before Drake could further mock him, the unmistakable creak of a bed frame had them freeze.
Maxen’s spine snapped straight. “Leave,” he commanded his brother.
Drake grinned. “Now why would I do that when I’m just about to meet the woman who made you laugh last night?”
Damn Reaper’s hide.
“Drake—”
A door opened.
And there she was. Tousled and with sleep-heavy eyes, she blinked.
And God . . . during the night he could forcibly overlook her nightwear.
But in the light of day? A string of curses tore across his mind.
Everything was just more. Her golden hair, tumbled in loose waves over her shoulders, seemed to glow, as if lit from within.
The swell of her breasts was near blinding.
Even her bare feet felt too intimate to witness.
His eyes, however, latched onto the coat she wore.
His coat.
Which swallowed her small frame.
Drake let out another low whistle. “Well, good morning, Miss Turner.”
Maxen wanted to snatch her from his brother’s sight.
Prince padded over to stop beside her. “You are?” she asked.
His brother stepped up and, with an audacious smile, offered his hand. “How rude of me. Drake Fury at your service.”
Her eyes flicked between them before placing her hand in Drake’s, and Maxen nearly grabbed his brother by the collar and tossed him out.
She pulled back her hand. “You were the man that settled my lease with Mr. Fitz?”
“That would be my other brother, Dagger.”
“I see. Are you here about what happened last night? Where is the man you caught?”
Maxen looked to his brother. He hadn’t had a chance to ask.
Drake’s humor vanished. “He still hasn’t spoken a damn word.”
“Then he’s trained,” Maxen suggested.
“Trained?” Calliope asked, brows pinching.
What the devil was wrong with Drake, choosing now of all times?
“In interrogation,” Drake clarified, voice clipped. “Which means he’s a professional. The only question is whether he was after you, Miss Turner, or after us. Do you have any enemies who would wish to harm you?”
She stilled, visibly paling.
“No,” she said slowly. Too slowly.
Drake cocked his head to the side. “Lying never goes over well with us, Miss Turner.”
“Drake,” Maxen warned.
But Calliope didn’t flinch at his brother’s tone. Instead, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Everyone has an enemy or two, but that man, whoever sent him, is not mine.”
“Do you know that for certain?” Maxen asked her. Rather be sure than careless.
She reached down to pat Prince’s head, as if the action brought her comfort. “No enemy of mine would send a lone ruffian to break into my shop.”
Maxen’s gaze sharpened. “A lone one? They’d send more, then?”
She hesitated, just a blink, but he caught the falter.
“That is . . . I misspoke. Whatever enemy I may have, they are no one you have to worry about.”
Wrong.
He also didn’t miss the they of that sentence.
His brother arched a brow. “If you believe that, you don’t know us all that well.”
“Drake,” Maxen warned again, quieter this time, but with no less authority. He glared at his brother. Get your brute hide gone.
“I’ll leave,” Drake acquiesced. “Hopefully Saint will have found some answers for us by the time I return.”
“Let me know if there’s anything.”
Drake nodded, turning to Calliope. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Turner. Until next time.”
She offered a small smile, but her eyes remained guarded.
When the door clicked shut behind Drake, Maxen dragged a hand through his hair.
“He’s your brother.”
“He is.”
“That’s quite a scar he has,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to his.
Yes, well, they were all scarred one way or another.
She didn’t press. Instead, she asked, “What about the man from last night? Also your brother?”
Maxen gave a curt not. “The least favorite one.”
Her smile lifted somewhat. “I see.”
“Who are your enemies?” Maxen asked her. That was his biggest concern at the moment. They were unknown variables.
She shook her head. “Like I said, no one you need to worry about.”
“If it affects me or mine, I worry about it, Calliope.”
“Well, please don’t waste time for my sake. My troubles won’t affect you or yours.”
Maxen wasn’t so sure about that, but he let the matter go.
For now. She looked tired. Wary. And if he had to wager, not from lack of sleep, but from the kind of exhaustion that ran much deeper.
The kind that rose from the ashes of pain.
It was no use pressing her in this state.
Best focus on the answers the bald intruder could provide.
Maxen’s hand twitched at his side. He wanted to reach for her, to catch one of those tendrils of hair between his fingers.
He clenched his fist behind his back instead. His attention snagged on the way his coat dwarfed her again, an image he did not want lodged in his mind but suspected would never leave him.
Distance. He needed distance.
He just didn’t think he could bear it.