Chapter Ten
Violet tasted blood. The faint trace of iron brushed her tongue as the man possessed her mouth, startling and strangely . . . not terrible. Fresh, metallic, alive. A dark promise. Persephone tasted a single seed and never escaped it.
God save her if this was hers.
Having not been able to tear her eyes off the man, she now concluded that Drake Fury kissed like he fought.
With unflinching focus, devouring intensity, and brutal dominance.
She felt the sheer force of him everywhere.
His fingers clamped at the nape of her neck, while his other hand pressed into her lower back, locking her against him.
His tongue retreated only long enough for his teeth to graze her lower lip—light, wicked, unbearably teasing—before he plunged back inside, the deep stroke sending shivers all the way to her toes.
Just like the man he knocked out, he rendered her blazing senseless!
But could she pull away?
Oh, no.
She should be fuming at his colossal nerve, instead, Violet met his dominance with her own.
Somewhere in the haze, visions of the way he had moved in his fight flashed behind her eyes.
Pure power wrapped in lithe grace. She’d never seen anything like it.
The shift of his shoulders before a blow.
The dance of his footwork. The sharp, carved lines of his abdomen when he twisted away from a strike.
She knew instantly, this wasn’t the mark of every boxer.
This was the mark of Drake Fury alone.
And now those same muscles were pressed against her, caging her in, every inch of him hot from victory. Her senses flooded with him, and her fingers, entirely without her consent, curled over the flesh of his chest.
Lord, how had she not noticed the first time that his body was a wall of iron beneath her palms? She felt the residual tremor of strength in him, the barely leashed power.
A mortifying sound escaped her. Small. Soft. The kind she had no name for and absolutely no intention of finding one for. But the man simply swallowed it like it belonged to him. Her knees softened just as her hearing returned, and the equally mortifying whistles of the crowd rushed in.
Blazing blazes!
She tore her mouth from his. What had she done? Saints preserve her, she had kissed him back. In front of everyone. A whole crowd had seen their heated exchange. This was not simply foolish. This was the stuff of ruin! No, this was ruin!
Is that so bad, Violet?
The ruin, probably not. But the kissing? Him? In front of a crowd? Yes! Her breath came sharp, uneven. “What in all the blazes did you do that for?”
Drake arched a brow, infuriatingly calm. “Didn’t you want me to?”
“Absolutely not!” she hissed in as much of a hushed manner as she could.
Though at this point, with an already rapt audience, what did it matter?
“How did you get such an irresponsible idea?” Although, could she really blame him?
What fate dealt one could at least be blamed on fate.
But when she was the one who caused the disaster with unknown consequences?
Then there was no one left to blame but herself, and that was the true misery of it!
“That’s strange,” Drake murmured. “Your eyes were begging for a kissing from the victor.”
“My eyes did no such thing, you insufferable brute.”
A flicker of amusement slid through his gaze. “Insufferable seems excessive.”
“Oh, trust me,” she snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest, “I have not begun to dissect the extent of your insufferableness.”
He caught her finger, his grip easy and infuriatingly certain, and her pulse did something foolish. She ignored both his hand and her pulse with equal determination.
“Careful, little flame,” he said softly. “You poke at me like that, and I’ll kiss you again.”
Little flame, little spitfire. The man had an obsession. That didn’t stop her body from burning hot enough to light the ships on fire under his threat. She snatched her hand away. “Don’t you dare. And since you’re done with your surprise, Fury. I’ll take my leave.”
“Speaking of surprise, you didn’t run off the moment I turned my back.”
She gnashed her teeth at the mockery in his voice.
Yes, well, he had a handsome back. That, of course, she’d not even admit in death.
And obviously, she hadn’t stayed because she was smart.
However, she’d been curious about this man who had never lost a fight.
What had they called him again? Some fighter’s name.
Something brutal. The name had dissolved somewhere between the first punch and the moment she’d forgotten how to breathe properly.
That aside, she’d still wanted to see for herself what Pip and Terry had been gushing over.
Her distaste for this sport, however, hadn’t disappeared.
“I decided to spare you the chase.”
“How obliging of you.” He swooped down to snatch up the shirt she’d dropped when he kissed her. “Did you at least enjoy the fight?”
Regrettably, yes and no. But she’d rather not open the lid that contained the yes. “I can’t say that I did.”
“Little liar.”
“What about you?” She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at the man. “Did you glean all the answers you were hoping to get from this night of fun?”
“Not all.”
Hah.
Drake Fury was a very patient man. He would never make a move against anybody, she imagined, without care and deliberation.
He’d never move in haste. In the same sense, like a tiger, he’d crouch in the undergrowth, waiting, observing, until the perfect moment to pounce. “Nevertheless, if you’ll excuse—”
A man stepping up to them snatched her attention midsentence. The sinister look on his face sent a ripple of alarm through her limbs.
Her gaze flicked from the man to Drake, who was dragging his shirt over his head, and the man approaching, his hand lifting to reveal a knife.
For a heartbeat, perhaps longer, she didn’t understand what she was seeing.
The air turned cold against her skin. The world narrowed to that single, horrifying image: Drake half-turned away, bare-skinned and unaware, while a stranger who somehow looked familiar lifted a blade meant for his back.
Violet tried to call out—his name, a warning, anything—but her tongue seemed trapped in her throat. By the time shouts of warning came from the people closest, the man was already upon them.
Drake.
Her body moved before the rest of her caught up.
Sound fell away, swallowed whole until there was nothing but the dull, thunderous pound of her own heartbeat.
Dread flooded every hollow inside her, filling her chest, her bones, her limbs with a cold, choking dread.
It happened exceedingly fast and painstakingly slowly.
It occurred to her, in the half-second before impact, that she was about to do something she could not take back, but she had no regrets.
Violet’s shoulder drove into his, shoving Drake out of the blade’s path. He staggered half a step, turning toward her in confusion as he jerked his shirt down. She didn’t have the luxury of meeting that look.
The blade, meant for his back, swung down straight toward her.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . .
*
Rage exploded in Drake’s veins at the sight of some bloody cockchafer driving a blade at Violet.
He seized the back of the collar of her jacket and yanked her out of the way, his other hand clamping around the attacker’s wrist mid-swing.
Bone snapped beneath the force of his twist, the dagger clattering to the ground.
The man screamed, a wretched, cracking howl.
Good, you blackguard.
One would expect at least two or three of the blood-hungry spectators to lend a hand and restrain the assailant.
Instead, fists started to fly in every direction.
Christ. A brawl broke out around him, bodies slamming together, a spray of expletives erupting like musket fire.
Drake cursed his own damned inattentiveness, his instincts having failed him at the most inopportune moment.
But before he could dwell on his mistake, every sense in him snapped awake, sharp, bristling, and late.
So damn late.
The ripping burn of steel tearing through flesh came the same moment Violet’s cry of his name split the air, followed by a chorus of familiar curses from his brothers somewhere behind the fray.
Then the presence at his back vanished, the blade wrenched free as the coward was dragged away, leaving heat and blood to pour down the back of his left flank.
“Drake! You’re bleeding!”
Thank you for stating the obvious, princess. He sent her a reassuring smile, but by the look on her face, he failed. He couldn’t believe someone had stabbed him in the damn back.
On the bright side, she saved you.
Saved him? Saved him his arse! She bloody put herself in front of a knife. His mood darkened once more. His gaze caught on Reaper, his brother’s boot pinning the limp assailant’s neck.
“Don’t kill the man,” Drake snapped. “We don’t kill.”
Reaper didn’t move, ominously grinding out, “Tonight, I’ll make an exception.”
“No exception. Drag him to the dungeon if you want to vent.”
“Drake.” Dagger’s growl cut through the chaos as he appeared, eyes murderously dark. “What the hell did you get yourself into? More are incoming.”
Damn it.
He snatched Violet’s wrist, ignoring the sting in his side. “We need to get out of here.”
“I agree,” Violet said worriedly. “What’s even going on here?”
A difficult question to answer. Equally difficult as the fact she had almost taken a blade for him.
He mistrusted acts of sacrifice. Oftentimes, they were simply calculated moves, and Drake was too bone-weary to question the suspicion surrounding her.
All he wanted to do was get her to safety and keep from bleeding out.
He clamped his free hand over the wound, more irritated than alarmed at the slickness beneath his palm, and said, “The hell if I know.”
“Go,” Reaper said, a manic light in his eyes. “Take your little flower home and get stitched up.”
“The tavern.” Knight materialized from the crowd, dragging a fellow by the collar in each hand. “Take yourselves there. Now.” His tone brooked no argument.
Drake agreed. He tightened his grip on her wrist and pulled her toward the exit, placing pressure on the wound. Hurt like the deuced devil.
“But your wound . . .”
“It will be fine,” Drake reassured. “I’ve had worse.”
“Fine, but if you collapse on me, I’m leaving you where you fall. See if I don’t.”
“I won’t collapse.” Could he still be called a man if he did? If he did go down, he’d better just bleed out.
She looked as though she very much doubted that, but he didn’t give her the chance to argue.
The brawl had fast turned into a bloody uproar, bodies slamming and stumbling in every direction.
Drake drew her closer, tucking her beneath his arm, steering her around a pair of men who crashed into their path.
One lashed out wildly, his fist cutting through the air perilously close to Violet’s cheek.
A snarl escaped his throat.
Devil take it, he should never have brought her here.
He shoved another arse aside with his shoulder, keeping Violet pinned tight to him as he forged ahead.
The pain in his side flared, but he refused to slow.
Bleeding was a problem for later. Every mud-bred rogue in the room seemed hell-bent on hurling themselves straight into her path.
“Stay close,” he ordered.
She folded her hand in his in answer, her fingers sliding between his.
His jaw locked so hard at the small action a muscle ticked, but he still closed his fingers over hers.
“Mind yourself,” he growled at a man who stumbled too near. The fool took one look at Drake’s face and lurched in the opposite direction.
“I’m fine, Drake.” She gave a short, awkward laugh. “Fists, blood, knives. I must say, you really do know how to show a woman a good time. I suppose this was not in your scope of fun?”
He admired her attempt to lighten the mood. “No, it was not.”
The night welcomed them as they stepped outside, the worst of the spectacle finally behind them. Drake steered them straight to his horse, the heat from her hand a soothing balm against the impatience still burning restless inside him.
“How is it that your horse remains exactly where you leave him without being tethered and not wandering off or being stolen?”
“I’m Drake.”
She snorted. “Forget I asked.”
Drake chuckled, gave her hand a squeeze and let go. He braced himself, keeping his hand clamped hard on his wound, and bent to hook his free arm beneath her knees, lifting her up onto the horse. Pain flared sharp and hot at the effort, but he swallowed it down.
“Be careful!” she exclaimed.
“I’m fine,” Drake bit out, dragging in a deep breath before hauling himself up behind her. A grunt escaped him as he settled into place.
“Next time, I won’t get on your horse unless you bother with a saddle.”
“Next time?” He bent toward her ear. “I like the sound of that.”
“Don’t,” she muttered. “It was simply a figure of speech.”
“A pity.”
“Are you taking me back to my shop?” She glanced back at him. “I can help you stitch the wound.”
“The tavern.” They had all the necessary provisions there. Plus, while it was good to keep his adversaries well within sight, it was also best to keep unpredictable variables, like her, attached to his hip. And that’s exactly what he planned to do.
“Uh, Drake?”
“Hmm?” He reached for the reins, cursing the rodent that put him in this position. “Scared I’ll lock you away, little flame?”
“No, but . . .” She pointed to the end of the street ahead of them. “Please tell me those are your men?”
Drake lifted his gaze and instantly broke out in a string of expletives. Bandits filed into the street, the lower half of their faces covered in neckcloths.
Well, everlasting hell.
The Bulldog didn’t seem to want to leave anything to chance. Which begged the question: Could this confounding night get any worse?