Chapter Thirty-Eight
Cold stone pressed against Lila’s cheek when she woke. Not darkness, but the dim, uncertain light of a single lamp hung too high on a wall she did not recognize.
Her head throbbed at the temples. Not from a blow, but from the cloth they had pressed over her mouth. Not enough to erase her thoughts, but to cloud them.
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself the way she taught Henry. Listen first. Find the center.
Her wrists were bound in front of her, not behind. Sloppy. Hasty. Not planned. Her ankles were free.
Good. That was their first mistake.
She pushed herself upright, inhaling through her nose until the tilt of the room eased. A cellar, by the damp air, the stone floor, the faint undertone of rot.
Not the Lyon’s Den. Not Rosehaven House. Not Wolfton Hall.
No windows. Only a narrow grate set high in the wall at street level. A vent.
She was below something. A house, a warehouse, a stable. Somewhere a carriage could arrive and leave without notice.
Her gaze swept the room again. Crates stacked unevenly. A broken chair. A length of rope thrown aside. A half-used lantern resting on a barrel. The door was iron-banded wood.
Footsteps passed overhead. Heavy. Measured.
Not Fenwick.
Fenwick moved like a man who expected the world to scatter for him. Sharp. Restless. These steps belonged to hired men.
Good.
She could work with fools.
The lock clicked.
Lila stilled her breath.
The door creaked open. A man ducked beneath the frame, torch in hand. He wore a coarse jacket, a scar tracing his jaw, and a blunt expression that suggested he had never entertained an original thought.
He looked her over. “You’re awake.”
“I am.” Her voice was even. “Unfortunately for you.”
He blinked, a small, perfect crack in his armor. “Fenwick’ll want you quiet,” he said. “Best keep still.”
“I’ve never in my life kept still,” she murmured. “Ask anyone.”
He stepped farther into the room.
Too far.
He should never have closed the distance when her legs were free.
She rose fast. Dizziness washed over her, but she refused to let it break her momentum. She kicked the torch from his hand. Sparks scattered across the stone.
He cursed and lunged.
She dodged left.
He grabbed her sleeve.
She twisted her arm, driving her elbow into his ribs. Not enough force to drop him, but enough to stagger him.
He swore again, louder.
And that, precisely that, was what she needed.
Marcus could follow noise. He could follow chaos. He could follow her.
“You little—” he started.
The door slammed behind him.
Another man entered. Broader. Angrier. His presence soaked the room like cold water.
Fenwick.
Of course.
He did not bother with a greeting. “Stop playing with her,” he snapped at the first man. “She’s a teacher, not a fighter.”
Lila lifted her chin. “You should try learning something. Teachers are good at identifying weaknesses.”
Fenwick stepped forward with a smile that chilled her blood. “You’re awake sooner than expected.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Not that it matters. You served your purpose.”
“And what purpose was that?”
“To bring him to his knees.”
Marcus. The thought struck her harder than the drug had.
The room tilted. Not from the drug this time, but from the terrible clarity of Fenwick’s intent.
“You believe Marcus will come,” she said.
Fenwick’s smile widened. “Men like Wolfton always come. He’s predictable. Foolish. He’s soft where you’re concerned.”
She kept her breathing steady. He wanted the reaction. He wanted to see fear.
He would see nothing.
“You think you know him,” she said quietly. “You don’t.”
Fenwick crouched in front of her. “Carriages fail all the time,” Fenwick said lightly. “Axles crack. Horses spook. A wheel loosens just enough.”
He stopped.
Lila’s voice was steady. “You sound certain.”
His smile returned, slower this time. “One learns to recognize opportunity.” Fenwick continued. “All I need to do is wait. He will come for you. And then…”
His smile sharpened. “…I will finish what I was denied years ago.”
“You do not understand him at all,” she said.
Fenwick straightened. “No matter. When he arrives, and he will, everything ends.”
Lila breathed out slowly.
No. Nothing ended on Fenwick’s terms. Not her life. Not Marcus’s. Not this story.
She shifted her position deliberately, drawing Fenwick’s attention away from the narrow vent high above her.
A draft brushed her cheek. Airflow. Street. Sound. Escape.
Marcus could find this place.
Fenwick expected him alone. Charging in blind. Predictable. Broken. He did not know Marcus now. Not the man who had claimed the truth aloud. Not the man who would come for her with the force of a gathering storm.
Lila leaned back against the crate, calculating every inch of the room, every careless step Fenwick took, every weakness he revealed.
If Marcus was the storm coming for her, she would be the lightning strike that opened the way.