Chapter Fifteen #2
Had she imagined it, or had his hand tightened on the curtain before he let it fall? “You’re all dangerous.”
“Not to you.” He turned to her. “You are who I protect.”
How was that not supposed to terrify and melt her at the same time?
*
Maxen stepped out into the morning and lit a cigar, sucking deep, the pull raking his throat, sharp and unforgiving. He blew out slowly, smoke curling into crooked forms before dissolving. Unlike some ghosts. The blackguards who clung on.
Bloody hell.
He’d never told that story before. About finding Drake half-dead with drink, about dragging his brothers home one by one, claiming them as his. Not even to his brothers, who were the story.
He dragged in another breath, puffed out a billow of smoke.
She’d probably already crowned him a “good man” despite his words to the contrary. He rolled the cigar between his fingers. Some truths were his alone.
“Well, cock on a duck, you only ever light one when you’re worried. Are you worried, frère?”
The voice came from the shadows beside the building. Familiar. Dry. A little too amused.
Maxen didn’t turn. “I’m not worried.”
Reaper stepped forward, arms folded over his chest, his coin conspicuously absent. “Then why are you smoking?”
“Habit.”
“Liar.”
Maxen sneered and tapped ash to the side. “I have things to think about.”
“You mean worry about.” Reaper nodded back to the inn. “She kick you out?”
“No.”
“She coming back?”
Maxen nodded. She and the hound were having a quick breakfast. He didn’t have any hunger in him to join them.
Peregrine had yet to show his face. He’d have him for breakfast, if he could.
The vulture must have already heard they’d taken root in his establishment. The man was annoyingly well-informed.
Reaper leaned against the wall beside him. “Knight says you tore nearly half of Brighton apart looking for her.”
“An exaggeration.”
“Drake said you nearly took off the head of the manager.”
“He was in the way.” And he had given him options. Tell him Calliope’s room, or he’d go through them all. The man had chosen wisely.
Reaper snorted. “I can’t decide if she’s the best thing to happen to you or the worst.”
“You and me both.”
They stood in silence for a minute. The area was quiet. The sun hadn’t fully risen, and the town still slumbered beneath a mantle of mist. This was the sort of sight she might have paused to admire. For him, his body and mind remained braced, unmoved by the view. Only one view moved him.
Reaper suddenly chuckled. “You’re less of an arse.”
He turned, one brow arched. “Less of an arse?”
“You used to bark orders like gunfire. Now you bark less and growl more. Though now that I think about it, that might make you more of an arse.”
Maxen took another draw from his cigar. “Keeping score is bad for your health.”
“Says the man with a book of scores.”
Maxen scowled. “They are called account books, you lackwit.”
“Moving on,” Reaper said. “Now that little mouse has gotten under your skin, what are you going to do about her there? Propose marriage?”
“Don’t be bloody ridiculous.”
“Is that ridiculous?”
“Yes.” In fact, his whole body broke out in shivers at the mere word. Men like him didn’t marry. What could he even offer a wife? Nothing a woman might want. A woman such as Calliope might want. Security. Constancy. Light.
Reaper gave a low whistle. “Savagely honest.”
“I am what I am.”
“And what’s that?” Reaper asked drily. “A man?”
“A monster.”
“Christ, frère. Even if you think like that, you shouldn’t say it out loud.”
Maxen disagreed. Simply thinking wasn’t enough with Calliope. A man could think his thoughts away with the speed of another single thought. He could begin thinking of all sorts of things he shouldn’t be thinking about. “There’s no difference.”
“Of course there is, frère. If she hears you, she might change her mind about what she imagines you could be, not what you are.”
“What books have you been reading?” He flicked the cigar into the dirt, crushing the ember with his boot. “Save the sage advice for yourself.”
Reaper tilted his head, grin crooked. “So what’s the plan then? Install her at Fury’s and then lock the door when she’s not looking?”
Maxen cut him a sharp look.
Reaper shrugged. “What? You’ve got that look about you.”
A muscle jumped in Maxen’s jaw. “You’re an imbecile.”
“True.” Reaper pushed off the wall, hands sliding into his pockets. “But you’re the imbecile who went and caught things. Don’t glare at me, frère. Those things are written all over your face. Well,” he waved a hand at Maxen’s scowl, “as much as anything can be written on that slab of granite.”
Maxen’s fingers itched to throttle his brother. Lock her up? Absurd. He’d never do that to anyone. Enemies aside. Even so, he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with Calliope. She’d already twisted him into a shape he scarcely recognized.
Reaper clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You should think about what that plan is, frère. Before someone else decides for you.”
“Keep talking and you’ll find your teeth decorating the ground.”
“See?” Reaper leaned closer. “That’s the growl I was talking about. A bit of bark, more growling.”
Maxen stared at him, unimpressed.
Both men turned as Drake approached on the back of a horse, dismounted, and walked over, a grim set to his jaw.
“What’s wrong?” Maxen asked.
“I just received word one of the warehouses in Shoreham’s been torched.” Drake got to the point.
Maxen stiffened. “Shoreham?”
Drake nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes. The western outskirts. One of our oldest storage houses. Took out half the stock before the locals could put out the blaze. I’ve ordered my men to move what survived.”
Reaper cursed. “Anyone hurt?”
“No bodies that I know of.”
Maxen’s mind raced. Calculating. Weighing. Could this be related to the shipment debacle? Or Rollings? Peregrine? Damn it. Both of whom, it couldn’t be overlooked, shared a connection with Calliope Turner.
“Any witnesses?” There better be bloody witnesses.
Drake shook his head. “This was clean. Fast. No accident.”
Christ. “A message for us, then?” What else could it bloody be?
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Drake muttered.
Reaper crossed his arms again. “You think this has ties to your little mouse?”
“No way to know, but the timing’s too damned convenient.” They had been out searching for Calliope last night. Distracted. Even so, Shoreham was miles away, and their mystery enemy could not have known how the night would play out.
Unless the blackguard was watching.
Drake glanced up at the inn’s second-story window. “If someone’s setting fires, they’re not going to stop at one warehouse.”
Maxen nodded. “Let Knight have his men double the guard at the warehouses in Lewes and Eastbourne. No one moves without us knowing it.”
Drake gave a curt nod. “Already got a runner on that. We should have a final report on the final damage in a day or so.”
“Good.”
“You’ve got that look again,” Reaper said, a coin appearing between his knuckles. “The one that means somebody’s about to wake up without fingers.”
Maxen didn’t bother denying it.
“Ah, well,” Reaper added with a thin smile. “Been too quiet lately. This will liven things up.”
“Has Serpent reported yet?”
Silence.
So, no.
Maxen’s teeth ground together. Whoever thought to touch what was his—his brothers, his business, or Calliope Turner—they’d just made the gravest mistake of their life.
He’d carve a path straight to his enemy if that’s what it took, dig the rat out by its tail and hang it for every soul in Brighton to see.
There’d be no mistaking the lesson. Brighton belonged to the Furys.
Every warehouse, every street, every property in their name and beyond.
And Calliope . . . God help the blackguard who thought to use her against him.