Chapter Three #2
There was no warning. One moment, she was still, the next, her leg snapped back with startling force.
The heel of her boot slammed into his shin with vicious accuracy.
Pain knifed up his leg, hot enough to rip a hiss from him.
His grasp loosened on reflex, and she twisted sharply, slipping free from him entirely and darting to the door.
Drake cursed.
The minx had kicked him. Properly damn well kicked him.
For half a heartbeat, fury split through his veins, clean, instinctive, ready to tear after her and drag her back by the scruff. But right behind the fury came something far more inconvenient. Grudging admiration.
She had good aim.
He pushed both aside and slapped a leash on the urge to pursue that stirred violently.
Chasing her would end this evening with someone being locked in a dungeon, and it wouldn’t be him.
And that would also mean touching her again.
Drake drew a slow breath, forcing his restless instinct back into submission as the pain ebbed to a dull pulse.
Footsteps sounded from the far side of the room.
Damn it.
Reaper.
“Not going after her?” his brother asked, voice flat with disbelief.
“I don’t see you going after her either.”
Drake didn’t turn right away. He stared into the dark she’d vanished into, unable to decide if he wanted to throttle her or applaud her.
The smell of her lingered, all wrong for this place.
Damnation. It seemed he’d have to pay a particular flower shop a visit tomorrow.
There was no chance she’d wandered in here by chance.
Something had driven her here, or someone had sent her.
And whichever it was, it had to do with him or the arse he was meant to fight. He’d stake his life on it.
“I’m not the one who had her in my arms.” Reaper lit a torch and strode over to him. “You know her, don’t you?”
“I don’t.” But felt her? Yes. That was the blasted issue.
“But you know who she is, or you wouldn’t have let her run off.”
Smart devil. Drake rolled his shoulder, irritation simmering.
He spoiled for a fight again. He shouldn’t have ended his one match tonight with a single blow.
He’d had time to draw the bout out a bit.
Anything to bleed off the violent itch still prowling under his skin, further provoked by the words run off.
Reaper held the torch to his face. “What are we going to do now? The plan failed.”
“It didn’t fail.” Drake’s jaw tightened. “It just took an unexpected turn.”
His brother snorted. “Feels like failure to me.”
“And not we,” Drake corrected, dragging a hand down his face to keep from snapping. “I. You do nothing. I’ll handle this from here.”
Reaper arched a brow in that insufferably knowing way of his. “And just who is this woman?”
“You don’t need to concern yourself with that.” They’d hold it over his head forever. He could already hear the relentless, low-brow jests about how he was following in his brother’s footsteps and becoming hopelessly entangled with a tenant. He was not.
“See, the moment you say things like that,” Reaper drawled, “I begin to think I should very much concern myself with it.”
Drake shot him a look sharp enough to cut through steel. “Drop it.”
“Fine. But then answer this. How did she get the jump on you? You, of all people.”
Drake ground his teeth. “Do you want a crooked nose?”
Reaper grinned. “I can take the risk.”
Bloody hell. “Where is Deveraux?” Drake changed the subject before his brother could dig any deeper into the dangerously soft thought of Violet in his arms.
“Probably following the bird you let slip,” Reaper said with a shrug.
Damn it. How could he forget he had two loose cannons tonight, not one? Fortunately, that particular disaster did not come to be, because the wayward arse himself sauntered up to them at that moment, hands in pockets, posture relaxed as though he’d strolled in from a stroll along the beach.
“Did I miss the grand no-show?” Deveraux announced. “A shame. I do so love watching you brutes pound one another into paste.”
“Where the hell were you?” Drake growled, turning on him with the last of his temper still riding his bones.
“Keeping watch. Why?” He blinked innocently, cocking his head to the side. “Did something happen?”
Reaper scowled at the man, turning the torch light on Deveraux. “Why do I get the feeling you already know?”
“So suspicious,” Deveraux murmured, unconcerned. “Are you going to tell me what happened or not?”
Reaper snorted but still recounted, “A woman kicked him in the leg and escaped.”
Deveraux’s eyes lit with annoying interest. “A pretty one?”
Drake shot him a murderous stare, wishing he could just throttle the grin off his face. “Mind your tongue.”
“Consider it minded.”
“So what now? If the insult to his honor didn’t drag the Bulldog out tonight, I doubt anything else will.”
Drake’s mouth flattened. “Men like him don’t ignore a challenge forever.”
“Perhaps if you’d chosen meat and not a carrot to lure the bulldog,” Deveraux murmured. “We’d be having a different discussion now.”
“There are more ways to skin a cat,” he reminded.
“He’s a dog, though,” Deveraux countered.
Drake ignored the man. His mind was already running ahead through other possibilities, motives, risks.
Violet Sharpe.
Brave little blossom in the dark. Too small to be skulking about dens like this, too soft to be brushing up against men like him, and yet she’d planted her heel in his shin and slipped his hold like a seasoned cutpurse.
The last time anyone had gotten the unexpected upper hand on him had been the day Maxen had found him.
He had believed the boy was looking for trouble, and had lashed out without thinking, feral and half-mad, striking first because that was how you survived.
How you stayed alive. His brother, while not a fighter by any means, had been damn strong, and too damn calm.
Drake’s fury had counted against him. He’d learned a valuable lesson that day. And now, he learned one again.
Who the devil are you beneath all that sweetness, truly, little flame?