Chapter Twenty-Nine
Maxen shoved through the door with his brothers on his heels, his gaze instantly landing on the trio standing near the entrance of the tavern, as out of place as lilies in a field of ash.
Bloody aristocracy. However, he recognized the women instantly as two of the ones who had visited Calliope’s shop the day after the scuffle with the intruder, who was now on his way to the nearest docks, awaiting his fate.
Saint, Knight, and Serpent, who had apparently kept watch over them as they waited, said nothing. Only Dagger was absent.
Maxen didn’t bother with niceties. “Where is Calliope?”
The man with the women scowled thunderously. The blonde woman at his side turned to him. “Ah, so I was not mistaken, at least. We’ve come to learn that she might have been kidnapped.”
Might have been. So they were not certain. “From whom did you learn this?”
“A boy who distributes pamphlets for me,” the red-haired woman said. “I’m Violet, by the way. I’ve just opened a flower shop.”
“When was this—the supposed kidnapping?”
“About four or five hours ago.”
“And you’re only coming to me now?” Maxen snarled before he could get a grip on the raging fire that flashed through him. “How did the boy know she was kidnapped? Was she in distress?”
“We were out,” the blonde one said. “We only just found out. My husband, Warton, tracked you down. We didn’t know who else to turn to, and well, you seemed rather protective of her that day we visited the shop.”
Of course. “The gothic hero.”
The blonde’s cheeks reddened.
“Did the boy say what happened?” Maxen asked.
“Three men came into her shop, and she left with them,” the man, Warton, said. “They made her cover herself in a cloak, but the boy said she looked panicked.”
Maxen’s jaw flexed, teeth grinding. Three men. A cloak. Panic. He could all but see it. A storm thrashed inside him. He caught the twitch of Drake’s head as his brother moved in closer, Reaper at his side, both silent pillars.
Drake broke his silence. “What did these men look like?”
The red-haired, flower-named woman frowned in thought. “The boy said they were not Brighton men. How he could tell, I’m not sure.”
“Oh, they can tell,” Reaper muttered darkly.
Outsiders.
Bloody hell. His fist curled. He’d known from the start she wasn’t an ordinary woman. The way she carried herself, the refinement beneath her stubbornness. And then Drake had gone and confirmed it with Dare’s information—daughter of an earl, apparently engaged. A runaway lady.
He stared at the trio. One of them.
Did that mean she was kidnapped or merely collected?
“Will you save her?” the blonde asked. Her eyes narrowed. “Or was I mistaken in thinking that you care?”
Maxen’s teeth bared in something like a snarl. Care. The word burned. “She is my tenant. That is all.”
Reaper gave a soft, derisive snort, but didn’t speak.
Drake sighed.
Violet stepped forward. “Tenant or not, she needs help. Will you give it or not?”
His temper spiked. “Her matter seems to be a family matter.”
Drake’s warning slid into the moment. “Don’t make a mistake here, Maxen. Matters might not be what they seem.”
Maxen forced a breath. “If it was her family, then it is no business of mine.”
Reaper snorted. “No business of yours? That’s not what I heard—”
“Reaper,” Maxen growled.
“What?” his brother challenged. “You’re just going to let her go like that?”
“What the devil do you want me to do? Steal her back?”
“Do you want to steal her back?” Knight asked.
Yes, damn it. He hated the image of Calliope living any sort of life without him. A noble life. But, “If she is a lady, then perhaps she belongs with them. Perhaps I’ve been a fool for thinking otherwise.”
The blonde gave a most inelegant snort. “Let me assure you, sir, as a marchioness, that line is the most nonsense I’ve heard in an age! Love is love! It transcends class. Only fools believe otherwise.”
“I think she just called you a fool, frère.”
Maxen’s eyes cut to Reaper, but the arse only grinned, dark challenge glinting in his eyes.
The marchioness folded her arms. “Well? Will you sit and sulk, or will you act? A woman’s future may hang in the balance.”
“She is not a woman,” Maxen snapped, and the woman’s husband took a protective stance. “She is a lady. A runaway. And I’ve no place meddling in the affairs of the nobility.”
“Seems to me you’ve meddled plenty,” Drake muttered.
Warton spoke again, steady as stone. “If you do nothing, she may vanish forever. Her family, or whomever these men are, will spirit her away, and she will have no voice in the matter. Is that truly an outcome you can live with?”
Were these people really nobles?
Maxen’s thoughts churned. Their words scraped at him, each one lodging like a thorn.
No matter how he told himself it was none of his business, that she had all the trappings he despised, the picture of her, her laughter, her smile, her sparkling green eyes, rose unbidden.
She had chosen Brighton. She had chosen freedom.
Damn it, she had chosen him, in her way.
Could he stand idle while others stripped her choices from her?
Dagger entered, Prince trotting at his side.
“Cock on a duck,” Reaper muttered.
Maxen’s whole body went cold at the sight.
“Found him outside the tavern,” Dagger said, the lines between his brows furrowed deep.
The tavern seemed to shrink, every sound muffled but the low whine Prince made as he darted forward, sniffing at his feet. The dog’s white fur coat was muddied, his nose nudging insistently toward the door as if demanding that Maxen follow.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The dog had been with her, almost always at her side. And now here he was, alone. “She . . .” He bent, hand sliding over Prince’s coat.
Maxen straightened, fury exploding anew, his hand still buried in Prince’s fur. The air burned in his lungs, every heartbeat a drumbeat of rage.
What the devil was wrong with him? Why was he standing here debating this? Questioning this? He truly was a damn fool. They’d taken her, stolen her from under his roof, from her shop, from him.
She hadn’t broken her promise.
“Have you come to your senses, frère?”
No one stole from him. No one stole her. The thought came torn from somewhere deep. His chest felt caged, his blood roaring.
She’d undone him. Remade him.
“I think he has,” Drake noted.
“I’m saddling my horse.”
His words snapped like a whip, jerking the room into motion.
Drake gave one short nod, already turning for the door. Reaper grinned, wicked and savage, his knuckles cracking like he’d been waiting for this since Maxen had returned after finding her gone.
Dagger only exhaled, tension draining from his stance, and muttered, “Thought you’d never bloody say it.”
The other three merely stepped forward silently.
The marchioness nodded. “At last, sir. A sensible decision.”
Maxen shoved to the door, Prince trotting at his heels, the tavern door slamming wide as he strode into the night. The storm inside him broke loose, a beast unchained.
They thought to take Calliope? They would learn what it meant to steal from Maxen Fury.
*
Calliope swore her limbs were about fall off by the time the carriage lurched to a halt.
The door opened to reveal a house she never thought she’d ever set foot in again.
Memory crashed over her, swift and merciless.
She was a girl again, clutching her books to her chest, hoping for a smile from her stepmother that never came.
Her father’s voice, always so gentle, reassuring her by quoting Shakespeare.
Rare jewels she had polished over the years in the hope they would shine brighter than the darkness.
A hopeful sentiment.
What lingered was sharper. Duvessa’s voice dripping venom. The attic. The mocking laughter of her stepsisters. But then at the same time more rare jewels in the servants who had helped her.
Just a little longer.
She shouldn’t be here. . . Didn’t belong here . . .
She belonged in Brighton. She belonged with him.
Her fingers curled into her skirts. I escaped this place once. I can escape it again. “I thought you said we weren’t coming back to the house.”
“Oh, did I?” Duvessa arched a brow. “I meant the wedding would be here. All troublesome servants have been dismissed, of course, but there will still be a wedding tonight. Though we have to get you cleaned up first. Can’t have you sully the family name.”
So she had lied. Amused herself at Calliope’s expense.
“Out,” one of the men barked, and Duvessa motioned her to exit first.
Calliope stiffened, her body aching from the long confinement, but she forced herself to move slowly, with dignity. She would not stumble on these steps, not when they led to her prison.
Two silhouettes spilled from the doorway, and Calliope’s breath stilled.
Her stepsisters. Morgana and Victoria.
Morgana’s shrill laughter pealed first. “Well, well, look what the tide dragged back. I thought Brighton had swallowed you whole.”
Victoria’s lips curved into a poisonous smile. “She looks half-swallowed already. Just look at those clothes. How dreadful. You’re certain she isn’t some common beggar Mama picked up along the way?”
Calliope glared at them. “At least I did not waste my days growing cruel and idle.”
Morgana gasped, hand pressed theatrically to her breast. “Cruel? Idle? You wound me, sister. But my, you have grown bolder!”
“Stepsister,” Calliope corrected tightly.
That earned another titter. “Where’s your mongrel? They didn’t kill him, did they?” Morgana taunted.
Calliope refused to answer as she was herded inside by the three ruffians.
Morgana leaned close, her voice a hiss. “No matter, your husband might buy you another. If you beg.”
“When have I ever begged?”
That drew a sneer. “You’ve always fancied yourself clever,” Victoria said. “Clever enough to run away. And now look where it’s landed you, dragged back home in rags.”
She would rather wear rags and live in Brighton with Maxen than wear pretty dresses and be shackled to misery.
Even the darkest corner in Brighton wasn’t as dark as this house and these people.
Brutish, brooding, impossible Maxen. He was no gentleman.
Yet in his presence, she had felt more alive, more seen, than in any other moment.
And she still had that card up her sleeve.
She was no longer chaste.
If she revealed that at the right moment, surely no man would take the chance to marry her? Let them believe they’d won. Let them think her spirit cracked. They would never know that her thoughts, her heart, had already escaped beyond these walls. Now, she would only have to escape with her body.
“Where is my uncle?” Calliope asked. “If I am to be forced into this farce, should he not be here to deliver me into it?”
Duvessa’s lips curved. “So demanding, child. You’ll see him soon enough. He is out with your betrothed. They are finalizing arrangements.”
Morgana giggled, looping her arm through Victoria’s. “How quaint, that your fate comes down to coin.”
“Coin and convenience,” Victoria added smoothly. “A lady who runs makes her family look desperate. Better to tie her down quickly, before gossip turns into ruin.”
So this was about money?
Calliope’s nails bit her palms. “You speak of ruin as though it is not already here. If Papa still lived—”
Duvessa’s eyes hardened as she shot a glare at Calliope. “If your father still lived, your fate would not have been any different.”
“That is a lie,” Calliope shot back, her temper sparking. “Papa never would have sold me to the highest bidder. He believed in honor, in choice.”
Morgana clapped her hands together. “Oh, how charming! Our Calliope still dreams of hopeless fantasies.”
“Dreams are for children,” Victoria agreed.
Calliope scoffed at them.
“Silence,” Duvessa said coldly. “Your fate has been sealed, child.”
Calliope refused to respond to the taunt. She should try to find a way to get word to Mr. Fitz. She was afraid, however, she wouldn’t be given a chance.
Morgana laughed. “Yes, fate brought you back where you belong. The attic still waits for you.”
Vile.
Victoria smirked. “Yes, we’ve prepared it for your return.”
Duvessa silenced her daughters with a flick of her hand. “Enough. Take her upstairs. We’ve wasted too much time already. The earl and her betrothed shall return soon, and I expect her to be prepared. There will be no more theatrics.”
One of the men grabbed her arm and led toward the stairs. Calliope lifted her chin, refusing to be dragged like an animal. Every tread stirred old shadows—the attic’s cold drafts, the sting of laughter in the corridors, the loneliness that had once smothered her.
But she was not that girl anymore.
She had tasted freedom. Brighton’s salt air still thrummed in her veins. Maxen’s fierce gaze, his impossible presence, his body against hers burned hotter than these walls could ever contain.
They thought her cornered. They thought her caught. But she had claws now, sharp enough to draw blood.
Her stepsisters followed, whispering gleefully behind their hands. The house had once threatened to swallow her entire being.
Not this time.