Chapter Twenty
Calliope should run. She most certainly should leave.
So she just did that. What set him off, she didn’t know, but his abruptness startled her into flight.
She’d made it halfway to the door, Prince on her heels, before something had her stop, heart dropping to her belly then shooting back to her throat before dropping again.
Not something.
A name.
Her name.
Spoken like a curse and a plea all at once. A release of breath she wasn’t meant to hear. Maybe it was the sting braided through each note, or the memory of his eyes, his hands, his kiss, all together.
Calliope turned back.
By the stars. No.
What did she do to him? Why did she have leave?
How about the other way around? What did he do to her?
Why did he not leave? She’d been sensible, to a degree, up until here.
She had plans. A dream. Then he’d cast some sort of spell over her.
She had actually kissed him. Without thinking, without planning.
Without anything but pure, bone-deep, breath-stealing, brain-scattering want.
One step.
Then another.
His eyes bore into hers, and she could practically feel him assessing her behavior. Trying to make sense of what she was doing. He wouldn’t get the answer. Honestly, she didn’t even know.
Heat flushed low in her belly. A primal awareness.
Greed.
That was the word.
Not just for his mouth or his hands or that maddening scar above his heart, the one that split his lip. But for the way he looked at her. Protected her. Pursued her. She never imagined she’d feel this exposed.
Not after London.
Her pulse quickened as she stepped closer still, until she had to crane her neck to look up at him again, his scent enveloping her once more.
She couldn’t put a name to the notes—somewhere between wild and dangerous—but the spice was so blazingly heady she wanted to let her eyes drift shut and inhale deeply.
But that would break this spell.
Or enhance it.
She wasn’t sure what would be more unnerving.
Her words came purposefully. “Don’t ever command me.”
His hand came up again. Slowly. Giving her time to evade. She didn’t. He was cupping her face, firm and hesitant, thumbs brushing the arc of her cheekbones as if he couldn’t quite believe he was touching her. The same as before yet somehow different.
How could she just flee from a moment such as this?
It was like he’d reached into her chest and found the wound still bleeding.
And then he swiftly let go. But instead of retreating to his side, that hand caught hers instead, and now that she was less dazed, she could feel the rough ridges of his scars against her skin.
“Why aren’t you saying something?” she asked. “You’re just staring.”
“So are you.”
“We kissed.” Was this the time to wonder what exactly that meant? As in meant meant? As in how to proceed in the future? Thinking about kissing and actually kissing, after all, were not the same. In fact, they weren’t even in the same realm of realms.
His fingers tightened around hers. “I didn’t mean to kiss you.”
“I didn’t mean to kiss you, either.”
“Do you regret it?” he asked, a furrow appearing between his brows.
Did she?
Every part of her screamed no. But then uncertainty slithered in, cold and slick. “I probably should, shouldn’t I?”
His jaw flexed, and he started to pull away.
She didn’t let him.
“Wait,” she whispered, keeping their fingers twined.
Her father had once told her, If you ever find yourself on the edge of a cliff, Calliope, look at the man who led you there.
Does he want to push you off, or pull you back?
She hadn’t understood back then. She was sure she never would. Now, she did. “I didn’t say I did.”
His eyes met hers again, and the storm in them settled. “You confuse the hell out of me.”
She gave a breathless laugh. “We could start a club, then.”
That startled a laugh from him. The rough sound hit her square in the chest. This man, he didn’t laugh often.
His brothers’ teasing made that clear. But when he did, he was unfairly handsome.
Less beast, more man. It made her want to kiss him again, memorize the way his mouth curved when amusement slipped past the shadows.
Just as quick, it was gone.
There he was again. All heat and shadows. All muscle and mayhem. Her insides twisted. She was in trouble. Deep, unholy, heart-thudding trouble. “My father would have liked you.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“He would have,” she insisted, tightening her grip on his scarred hand. “He saw the best in people, even when they did not deserve it. Especially then. It was his greatest gift and his greatest undoing.”
“What do you mean?”
“He trusted the wrong woman,” she said quietly. “She . . . she wrapped her lies around him until he could no longer tell truth from poison. By the time he realized her poison, it was too late.”
“Then he and I would not have gotten along. I don’t much like poison, and I’m not fond of lies either.”
“Some poisons are disguised prettily.”
That earned her an arched brow. “Is that a warning?”
She laughed. “I’m much too simple for that.”
“Says the rose.”
“Why, thank you. I won’t deny my thorns.” Her mouth tilted. “And yet, you are the man of no poison, sitting at the center of Brighton’s underworld. A little contradiction never hurt anyone, I suppose?”
His eyes flicked down to their still-twined fingers. “Contradictions keep men alive.”
“So you don’t like lies. Does that mean you never tell any?”
“Not to my family.”
“Right, you just ignore them, I imagine.” And she could also imagine he did it rather spectacularly.
“I’m not a whole man, Calliope.”
“You look rather whole to me.”
“You know what I mean.”
She offered him a smile. She assumed he referred to his past. “A person’s pain or past doesn’t make them less of a whole person, Maxen. You’re just a bit scratched. Possibly cursed. Slightly beastly. But not less.”
He made a sound—half sigh, half groan—and dropped his forehead to hers. “You’re not helping.”
“Are you going to growl at me to leave again?”
His nose brushed hers.
Could they stay in this moment forever?
*
The moment Calliope slipped out the door, Maxen snatched up his gloves and tugged them back on. A habit. A reflex. Something to do with his hands now that they weren’t lost in her hair. And he didn’t want the fading impression to vanish, so he’d trap them with his gloves.
You’re a fool.
Fool or not, he could still feel her. The warmth of her skin.
The beat of her pulse beneath his fingers.
The unhesitating press of her lips against his, her touch leaving a mark on his damned soul.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he didn’t contain this desire inside him, it might spread.
Infect every thought. Every instinct. Every bloody plan.
An absurd, ridiculous sentiment.
One he couldn’t stop.
He flexed his fingers, the leather biting into his knuckles, and staring at the closed door like it might spit her back out. But she didn’t return. Of course she didn’t. She’d kissed him, rattled him to his bones, and finally fled after she heard Reaper’s voice in the hallway.
Sensible. Smart, even.
He wanted to go after her. Fortunately, he’d managed to stop himself. Monsters shouldn’t want to want innocent angels.
The next tap on the door was too hard to be polite. Pushing it open before Maxen could answer, Drake stalked in, boots muddy and mood fouler than usual. “Serpent is awake, stubborn as hell and downstairs, dead set on hunting down his assailants.”
Maxen cursed.
Naturally, his brother was already plotting revenge. The man had a dagger stitched into his soul and patience stitched nowhere at all.
Drake ran a hand through his hair. “He’s bandaged and barely standing, but he won’t listen to sense. Saint’s holding him back for now.”
Damn it.
Events were spiraling too fast, too personal. “Who the bloody hell could be hiding in the shadows?” Maxen asked. “The same ones who torched the warehouses or someone different?”
“The same,” Drake said. “I’d bet my dagger on it.”
“Then it’s a message?”
Drake snorted. “More like a dare.”
Could very well be. Enemies were nothing new.
Rival crews. Smugglers with grudges. Aristocrats with their noses bent out of shape.
But this? This felt different. Too precise.
Too damn pointed. Fires, ambushes, shadows tailing Calliope’s every step.
This wasn’t business. This was damn personal.
As if someone wanted them all off-balance.
And knew exactly which thread to yank to unravel him. And they were right.
There was a knock again, and Knight slipped in, face resembling a block of stone. “Saint wants to take a stroll tonight.”
“No,” Maxen said at once.
“He says it’s the only way to calm Serpent’s temper.”
Maxen swore under his breath. “Knock Serpent out if you have to. No one is leaving Fury’s tonight.”
Knight gave a curt nod. “Reaper spotted a little tail through the window. Someone’s watching the tavern. Could be watching us. Could be waiting for her.”
A chill instantly spread through him. Maxen turned slowly to the window, but he didn’t move. Waiting for her? They’d wait forever.
“Could be both,” Drake offered.
Knight met his gaze. “She’s the oddest piece on the board.”
She was. She was the only thing here now that hadn’t been here before. Maxen’s hand curled into a fist. “We should delay fishing out the rat.”
Knight’s tone stayed level. “We can fish them out clean. Controlled. We set the trap, they come spy, we follow them back.”
Maxen shook his head. “We don’t even know who ‘they’ are.”
“We will,” Drake said quietly, “if they take the bait.”
Maxen paced to the unlit fireplace, planted a hand on the mantel. His shoulders coiled tight, jaw locked. Whoever was starting fires was taunting them. They must be aware of Serpent’s history, too. He felt it in his bones. And they were also using Calliope.
Unacceptable.
Both things. Every instinct in him revolted at the idea of putting her and his brothers in the path of a threat. Even in pretend. Even surrounded by every brother he trusted. Even if she volunteered.
Especially then.
He didn’t like her eagerness to head straight into danger.
This wasn’t just about strategy. It wasn’t even about the mission anymore.
It was about her. At the same time, he didn’t want to leave her alone at the tavern while they hunted.
Didn’t want her open to such risk. And damn him, but he didn’t want her far from him, either.
And he couldn’t let his brothers do this alone.
Bloody everlasting hell.
“She stays close,” Maxen growled.
Knight frowned. “Then we are doing this.”
“We’re not using her,” Maxen clarified stonily. “We fake a move. A discreet exit. Whisper the details through the town’s veins. Make it sound like we’re whisking her off to a safe place.”
“And when they bite?”
Maxen’s face darkened. “We bite harder.”
Drake folded his arms. “And where does she go?”
Maxen turned, eyes hard. “With me.” As his side at all times.
Knight’s brow lifted. “You think that’s wise?”
No.
Moving forward with this might just be catastrophically unwise.
But he couldn’t do what his brothers wanted any other way.
She’d already cracked open parts of him that hadn’t felt anything in years.
And after what had happened to Reaper at her hand, the night of rushing around searching for her, Maxen wasn’t taking any chances.
He could even envision her. Calliope, stubborn as a mule, pistol hidden somewhere on her body, ready to act brave. His brothers would guard her well, but what if something went wrong and he wasn’t close?
His gut stung at the thought, sharp and merciless. No. Not again. He’d let her run free once. He wasn’t making that mistake again, not while an unknown enemy was circling her like a vulture. Not while blood had already been spilled.
“She’ll be safer at my side than anywhere else,” he said.
Drake didn’t argue. Neither did Knight. They knew. Once he made that call, there was no recalling it.
“When?” Knight asked, his eyes twin coals of violence. “I’m in the mood to bite.”
So was Maxen.
“Tomorrow.”