Chapter Fourteen
Calliope perched on the edge of the narrow bed by the window, Prince sprawled at her feet.
Her gaze drifted over her room but fastened on nothing in particular.
The air smelled faintly floral—rosewater, perhaps—but beneath another scent, something odd.
Musty. It made her wrinkle her nose every time she caught it.
She still couldn’t believe she’d fled like that.
I really left.
The valise at her feet was gaping open from her last attempt to take stock of her belongings, though she never touched them, even though she’d reached for them about a hundred times.
It was just that her hands needed something to do.
Anything other than fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve or brushing over the spot on her breast where her heart had once been neatly contained. Now that place throbbed wildly.
Prince let out a dissatisfied whine.
“I know,” she said softly. “You’re still judging me, aren’t you?”
He didn’t so much as blink at her.
And truly, who could blame him? Her grand plan had been to leave, no—escape, had sounded clever. Daring. Necessary. Except she’d overlooked one rather glaring flaw: she had no blazing idea where to go next.
Brighton was no longer safe for her dream.
London had never been safe.
And everywhere else on the map of England felt more like exile than anything else. She hadn’t packed hope. She hadn’t packed direction. She hadn’t packed a dream long in the making.
Not exactly a plan.
She sighed and dropped her head into her hands and allowed herself exactly three heartbeats of despair.
On the fourth, she straightened. I’ve lived through worse.
This hurdle, she could survive. She just needed to think.
To plot a course of action. That was what she’d always done.
Quiet survival, clever pivots, always finding a way.
Except . . .
This time it wasn’t Duvessa who held her captive in all but name.
This time the person was Maxen Fury. His web.
Protection, as he would call it, by tightening the ship.
The man who’d looked at her as if she were both the problem and the answer.
The man who hadn’t said a word when it mattered most. The man who—
Urgh.
Stop it, Calliope!
So he hadn’t said anything. They were from different worlds.
She couldn’t expect anything from him. She couldn’t place any hope there.
Her heart had been pummeled by expectations too many times before.
She couldn’t allow her wits to scatter like this.
This wasn’t heartbreak. Maxen hadn’t broken her heart.
This was merely disappointment. Sharp, yes.
Searing, somewhat. And entirely her own fault.
She’d let herself imagine a life here.
Allowed herself to believe she could carve out a wedge of light beneath the shadow of a beast.
“You fool,” she whispered. She didn’t know if she meant him or herself.
On the bright side of things, at least she had a place to stay for the night.
She could worry about the rest tomorrow.
Mr. Peregrine had been kind. Too kind. He had even settled her account.
Of course, she would have taken care of her account herself, but her pistol had been right atop her coin purse!
How embarrassing.
But what had he said before? No one would question her presence.
Which, she belatedly realized, was precisely why she didn’t fully trust his promise.
Years in Duvessa’s net had taught her that kindness always came with a cost. And if caught in such a trap again, she feared she’d not be able to bear the cost.
She rose and stepped up to the window, pushing the sash open despite the frigid breeze. Her fingers tightened on the frame, knuckles white. Gripping the frame might very well be the only thing keeping her from leaping right out.
And what? Run back to him?
Heh. A fool she could be called no longer. There wasn’t a word that existed yet for her!
Calliope spotted a cat darting from below a tree and vanishing into the shadows.
Lucky creature.
She wished she could move freely without fearing what waited in the dark. Of course, she didn’t want to vanish. At least not into the shadows. She just didn’t want to be found.
Not by Duvessa, anyway.
Or him.
Had he found his brother yet? All sorts of suspicions must be gathering in his head. Spy sorts of suspicions. A shiver raced through her, though whether the slight chill came from the wind or the memory of Maxen Fury’s voice growling her name, she couldn’t say.
He hadn’t growled.
Hah. Tell her memory that! Every part of her still burned with the sound. That roughness. The promise of chaos and ruin. The hope she hadn’t wanted but had somehow gathered to herself anyway.
Stars, she was a fool.
Calliope inhaled a deep, fortifying breath. Just like she’d had to do the first few nights after escaping the old house. She’d have to find another opportunity to send Mr. Fitz a letter. Perhaps Wales would be the best option for now?
Maybe.
“I have not loved the world, nor the world me,” she whispered aloud, suddenly recalling a passage from Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.
She had never taken a liking to reading, but sometimes a book helped her sleep.
This one sentence, however, had stayed with her from the moment she’d read the words.
But she had no need for the whole world. Just a small piece of earth she could tend. One she could love. Love well. And one that might, in time, love her in return.
She sank back onto the bed and drew the coverlet over her, the thought of changing out of her breeches into something more comfortable flickering briefly before exhaustion smothered the idea.
Unfortunately, the blanket was far too thin to serve as a shield.
Prince bounded up and collapsed against her, his canine sigh shuddering through the mattress.
“Just one night,” she murmured, stroking his soft ears. “One night to catch our breaths.” Just a little longer.
But the quiet didn’t soothe this time.
She closed her eyes anyway.
*
Maxen pushed the door open to Calliope’s chamber and slipped inside. He spotted the lump on the bed instantly. Two lumps, to be exact. One of them lifted its head to look at him, and he stilled. The hound stared for a full second before dropping his head back down.
Good boy.
He closed the door behind him and crossed the room soundlessly. She did not stir, not even when a gust of wind set the curtains billowing. At the foot of the bed he paused, unmoving, staring.
Contemplating.
Her face was half-buried in the pillow, hair tumbling loose about her.
Her lashes lay dark against her cheeks, and for once her mouth held no stubborn curve—only a soft, parted bow that did something to the flow of blood to his heart.
Even the proud line of her nose seemed gentled in sleep.
She looked more innocent. Softer. As though the world had never sought to carve its due from her.
A heaviness pressed against his chest, too dangerous to name aloud. He had no right to be here. He should leave. Walk out. Pretend he hadn’t come this far, hadn’t threatened to burn this damn inn to the ground, hadn’t crossed this line.
His feet refused to move.
What now, you clever simpleton?
Her eyelids twitched and her brow slightly furrowed.
Was she having a nightmare?
Bad dreams were probably the only foe he could not fight. His gaze dropped to her valise. He hadn’t known what he’d find. Somehow, her and her hound sleeping so utterly defenselessly had not crossed his mind.
His hand brushed over her slipper in his pocket.
She was not someone they had to worry about.
But she was the woman from that night. One mystery solved, a dozen more crowding in.
He wasn’t ready to wake her. Wasn’t ready to face her eyes when they opened.
Still, there were things he had to say. Words he hadn’t managed when they counted.
Words that didn’t come easily to men like him.
Orders, silence, fists? Yes, that was his language.
Not one he could speak with her, however.
He carefully drew a chair closer and lowered himself into the seat.
And waited. Yet the longer he sat, the harder it became to keep still.
He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, and let his gaze settle on her face.
Close enough now to see the pale freckles on her face.
Close enough to hear the even breath she drew. Too close.
His hand rose before he could stop it, tracing a finger over her cheek. He froze. What in God’s name was he doing? He drew his hand back, fingers curling into a fist, then reached out again.
Just once.
His fingertip skimmed over her cheekbone.
So soft.
He couldn’t exactly feel her skin through his gloves, but imagination had no mercy. He almost removed a glove just to confirm what he already knew to be true. But there, he drew the line.
He never removed his gloves.
Not in front of people.
Not even his brothers.
How many times had he done this? Sat in the dark beside the bed of one of his brothers—watching over them as they slept off wounds or too much whisky.
Too many. Knight, after he’d taken a blade for a message gone wrong.
Dagger, when he’d nearly drowned himself in a bottle after he lost a friend to an unknown death.
Even Saint, whose silence could bleed into something far more dangerous when left without a compass.
Maxen had always kept watch. If he didn’t, who would?
But this was different.
She wasn’t his brother.
She wasn’t his family.
And yet she had lodged in his veins like gunpowder, a spark away from ruin. Impossible to dig out.
He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him, and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.
His heart hadn’t settled since he’d found Reaper tied up and her gone.
Fury was his name, the name he had chosen, but he hadn’t known fury like that.
And not the raging kind. Or yes, perhaps raging.
But not raging in anger. Raging in all the ways but that.
She didn’t belong in his ship?
This wasn’t a matter of belonging anymore. This was a matter of survival. Protection. Hunt the threat. Though, when she woke up, he might very well find himself staring at the black eye of her pistol.
Christ, he didn’t know how to string sentences together that weren’t either commands, warnings, blunt facts, or sarcasm. Commands wouldn’t work, and sarcasm was out of the question. What was left to him was blunt facts and warnings. State a blunt fact, then follow up with a warning?
His gaze shifted to her face when she moved in her sleep, brow furrowing. He balled his hands into fists before he attempted to smooth the furrow for her.
Just who are you, Miss Turner?
“I’ve maimed men for less than what you made me feel,” he muttered softly.
She stirred again, her lashes fluttering.
Maxen froze, then his mouth twisted, bitter with self-loathing. Maybe she’d wake. Maybe she’d sleep through the night. Maybe she’d send him away. Maybe she’d hear the words he hadn’t even figured out how to say. There simply was no control where she was concerned. She dismantled everything.
But he would wait.
For once in his bloody, brutal life, he chose not to deny himself.
“You can’t leave Brighton, Miss Turner. Not before I peel away each and every one of your secrets.”