Chapter Fifteen
Quite the enemy you have courted.
Reaper’s words turned over and over in her head as she stared at the small room she’d been given at the Furys’ tavern.
The only furniture being a bed, with bedding, of course, a desk, and a chair.
Supremely spare. No more than a person required.
Strikingly lonely. Not that she could judge.
Her life at the moment was just as bare.
But she had her flowers, and flowers brightened a space like nothing else.
She sighed, falling back onto the bed.
A bath had been provided, an unexpected courtesy from men like these brothers. They had even prepared it themselves, hauling it to her chamber and away again once she was done. Of her protector she had heard nothing since their arrival. He was likely still unconscious.
Would he be all right?
What if he did not wake at all?
Do not even think such a thing, Vi.
Besides, that man’s nature might well have been that of a weed.
If he had not died in the dungeon under her care, he was hardly likely to do so under the care of his brothers.
Speaking of brothers, what on earth had happened between her brother and Drake that caused such a vicious attack?
Because that was what it had been. Coordinated.
Not opportunistic. Someone had known Drake Fury’s plans, and her brother had planned this attack accordingly with his particular flavor of cruelty.
But then, she probably would do well not to presume too far.
For all she knew, her brother might be complicit rather than the cause.
Be that as it may, he bore his share of this night.
The percentage of his involvement, however .
. . that was what bothered her. Also, the face of the man who had attempted to kill Drake.
Urgh.
Despite all these worries, she could not put the man himself from her mind. What they had done in his dungeon. Unabashedly, unashamedly taken pleasure from each other. What had that moment even been? They had coupled, but hadn’t coupled? They’d found release but still had their clothes on?
Violet was no prude. She understood these things well enough, had overheard and learned plenty between balls, her brother, and the books in the library.
She’d envied these brothers their devotion.
Yearned for something similar. Had that been what she’d been missing?
Not in terms of siblings. That she could never possess.
A husband, perhaps?
No, no. After being engaged to a contemptible coxcomb, cut from the same cloth as her brother, she’d rather not steer in that direction. The permanence of such a union.
A friend?
Not quite. She wanted something more intimate than mere friendship.
A lover, then?
Drake’s face swam in her mind.
Certainly not!
And yet. The bed. His hands. The utterly catastrophic way her good sense had simply evacuated the premises the moment he’d looked at her with those dark, probing eyes.
Haven’t you crossed the line enough, Vi?
Yes . . . But, she could always just cross back over then, couldn’t she?
Not all lines were irrevocable. Some that got crossed could be uncrossed.
Well, she’d just cross back over then, wouldn’t she?
Lines could be uncrossed. Decisions could be revised.
She was a perfectly sensible woman in full possession of her faculties, and she would simply choose, going forward, not to be within arm’s reach of Drake Fury.
Perfectly simple.
Do you truly believe yourself?
Violet sighed. No . . .
A knock sounded at the door, interrupting her spiraling thoughts.
She drew a deep breath. “Yes?”
“It’s me.” Calliope’s soft voice drifted through the door. “May I come in?”
Violet pushed herself upright. “Yes, of course.”
The door pushed open, and Calliope slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her.
The woman’s fair hair and green eyes were marked by an open warmth, a gentleness that softened everything they touched.
So unlike the man she had married. And yet, in a way, they suited each other.
Light and dark. Hard and soft. No such harmony existed between her and Drake.
“I heard what happened,” Calliope said at once. “Are you hurt?”
Violet shook her head and patted the bed beside her. She hadn’t realized how much she had needed the presence of another woman. “No, I’m fine. Come, sit.”
Calliope nodded and joined her on the bed, handing Violet a valise. “A night dress and a dress for the morning. I thought they might be welcome.”
Gratitude pricked in Violet’s throat. “Thank you. Men don’t think about these things.”
“Oh, I know, and I hear it’s been quite the night,” Calliope remarked.
Violet nodded. “How is Drake?”
“He will be fine,” Calliope said reassuringly. “Maxen is waiting for him to wake. The others are keeping watch downstairs and on the roof.”
Oh.
The man would no doubt receive a thorough reckoning from his brother. If such a thing were even possible. Could Drake be scolded? The notion conjured images of two titans colliding, sparks and stone and stubborn pride.
She could imagine it.
She simply preferred not to.
“Are they always so . . . intense?” Violet glanced toward the door, as though the men themselves might be listening through the walls.
The journey back had been thick with dark looks and scowls, which seemed to be their nature.
She understood the danger at their heels, the enemies hunting them still, and their brother had fainted, yet even when they smiled or joked about, like Reaper, an undercurrent remained.
Calliope gave a soft chuckle. “Always.”
“I am surprised they do not find it exhausting.”
“Oh, they do not,” Calliope said lightly. “It is only tiring for the people around them.”
Violet studied her more closely. “You seem to bear it well.”
“That is because I ignore them for the most part,” Calliope replied. “Or pay only partial attention to their antics.”
“Even your husband?”
A sweet smile curved Calliope’s mouth. “Especially my husband. His intensity does not weary me. I find it quite endearing.”
“The power of love,” Violet murmured. How enviable. Should she reconsider a husband after all?
No. Certainly not.
A lover, on the other hand . . .
“If I may ask,” Calliope said carefully, “how did you come to cross into Drake’s line of sight? From what I have observed, he does very little without purpose. That’s true of all of them, really, but he seems particularly adept at the proverbial game of chess.”
Violet at once went vigilant. What to do?
Dare she tell the truth? Lie? Impart partial truth?
No, she couldn’t bring herself to expose the truth.
Not yet. The moment she told the truth, she’d be part of this feud, and she refused to be caught up between the games of two men again, even if the stripes and spots of the predators were different.
Calliope might be kind and generous, but she was still a Fury.
Keep to the story, Vi.
“I stumbled into his trap,” Violet murmured. “One meant for someone else.”
“Ah.”
Violet lifted a brow. “You say that as though you understand my plight.”
Calliope grinned. “I once stumbled into something myself. That is how I met my husband. Not a trap, mind you, rather more a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You were caught and suspicion followed?” Violet asked, intrigued. While she’d met Calliope before—the woman had even visited her shop at its opening—she’d never heard how their union came to be.
“With these men?” Calliope laughed softly. “How could it not?”
“How did you convince them otherwise?” How could she convince Drake?
Calliope pursed her lips thoughtfully. “On the one hand, I was innocent. On the other, I was . . . not entirely so. Time, however, smooths out all misunderstandings.”
Time would smooth out nothing for Violet.
There were no misunderstandings between her and Drake.
Only hidden moves and unseen pieces. She knew who she was.
She knew, at least partially, who he was.
And she didn’t believe that the distance between those two truths was something that patience could bridge.
“Well, I suppose we shall have to see if that works for us,” Violet said, then probed, “Do you know who this enemy is? Am I in danger now too?”
The woman gave her an apologetic look, sending her pulse leaping. “I do not know. I do know that Maxen is furious. We shall know soon enough.”
Violet nodded. That made sense. The brothers only found out tonight the depth of this danger, she imagined. “How do you do it?” she asked quietly. “Live with such imminent risk all the time?”
Calliope laughed. “I ask myself that every day. Mostly, I trust Maxen. And,” her smile turned wry, “you may rest assured, I possess some fight of my own. Just like you.”
Unfortunately, those words were no comfort at all.
*
Drake opened his eyes to Maxen’s furious glare and knew, at once, that he was not dead.
Could he still wish to be? Blast it all to the devil.
He’d done it again. Collapsed. And not just before the little flame this time, but before his brothers as well.
What cursed fate of humiliation haunted him this night?
He shut his eyes, willing himself to erase the memory of all of it, starting from the moment Ox nearly got the upper hand.
That would be where it started. Where it ended .
. . Christ. He had felt the last of his strength draining, and still pride had convinced him he could fight the haze.
Pride, and stubborn bloody-mindedness. Look where that had gotten him.
Maxen did not speak. That, more than anything, told Drake precisely how furious his brother was. Maxen’s anger was rarely loud. The pressure, on the other hand, was not a bloody pleasant experience.
Drake shifted and the ache of his body answered him in kind. “Where is Violet?” he asked roughly, turning to his brother.
“That is your first concern?”