Chapter Five
Violet had never questioned her choices as much as she did at this very moment.
Where was her landlord taking her? Where else but through the back entrance of some unholy building, candelabra in hand, down wet and eerie steps, and into a room that seemed devoid of life and smelled as unsettling as the place itself.
A dungeon.
Drake Fury had taken her to a dungeon!
Was he going to lock her up here? It had been bad enough to be embraced in the brute’s arms up till here, but now .
. . She cursed the man. Fear spiked her heart, and with it came vigilance.
She eyed him while her gaze never strayed too far from the door, her memory racing through the route. Steps, hallway, door, freedom.
While doing that, she also gathered the courage to ask, “What is the meaning of this, sir?”
The corner of the brute’s lips hitched. “Is the meaning not clear?”
“Forgive me, but I am the sort of person for whom one must spell out the meaning for me to understand clearly. This is both for your benefit and mine.”
He set the candelabra upon a low stone ledge and crossed his arms, leaning against the bars of one of the prisons. “This is where people end up who cross me.”
Violet couldn’t help a little shiver crawl over her skin at that. “Since you are showing me this and not locking me in a cell,” yet, “that seems to mean you believe I will cross you?”
“Correct.”
Of all the things and all the men! Violet’s temper sparked. She would love to challenge him to list all the things he knew about her and watch his face as he realized there were practically none. “And, pray tell, what’s given you this idea of me?”
Unless . . .
Oh, Lord. That wasn’t possible, was it?
Unless he knew it was her last night.
Should she confess? Explain? But then, last night had been a trap for her brother, had it not?
Which meant, logically, this Fury was her brother’s enemy, not hers.
But who knew what the man might do if he ever discovered that she was his enemy’s sister .
. . In no world would that prompt anything good!
“Why don’t you tell me what might have given me such an idea?” he countered, eyes as sharp as a predator.
Once again, a tiger came to mind. All brute force and cunning. Big, but soft on his feet. That sort of feel. And on the heels of that thought, only one word repeated over and over in her head. Deny, deny, deny.
“I cannot possibly begin to say,” she ventured. “But do you not think,” she waved to the cells, “this is all a bit too much?”
“Bringing you here, you mean?”
“This form of intimidation. A verbal warning would have sufficed.”
He shrugged. “I am a visual man, Miss Sharpe. I wish to show you and thereupon see your face when I do.”
Remarkably brutal.
“For curiosity’s sake,” and because she had to ask, “what do you do with the people you lock in here?”
A full-fledged grin, truly wicked in nature, stretched across his face, twisting his scar, slicing its length.
You just had to follow him here, didn’t you, Violet?
I had no choice!
“The time depends on the crime.”
Oh, God. What had been her crime? “Accidentally” wandering into his trap?
She would swear by that story until her skin peeled off!
Nevertheless, her lack of sense, the way she’d abandoned her wits, both confused and annoyed her.
She ought to know better. She ought to act smarter.
She ought not lose her nerve at the mention of her brother.
She had to become stronger.
Realistically, probably most certainly, Violet would not be able to avoid her brother forever.
Fate was a wicked thing. She had to use this time to build a life he could not yank her from.
That, however, was easier said than done.
Although, she figured in a few years, she’d be old enough that no man would want a spinster off the shelf either.
Especially one that lowered herself to commerce. How scandalous, was it not?
But first, she had to survive her landlord.
She had not declared war on men like her brother just to fall prey to the first predator that stepped into her new life.
Her gaze swept the cell, her frustration growing. “And how do you determine the time of the sentence?”
He chuckled. “You seem awfully curious, Miss Sharpe. Are you worried?”
She mimicked his stance and crossed her arms. “Why would I be worried when I have done nothing wrong?”
The man stepped forward, clearly to intimidate her further, and she forced her feet to stay put. “I shall be the judge of that, Miss Sharpe.”
Annoying, truly. He clearly didn’t have any intention of telling her what her supposed crime was, although there could be only one thing, a thing she’d never admit to, so they seemed to have come to a stalemate.
His words had scarcely faded into the stifling air when steady footsteps approached the dungeon.
Violet startled, head snapping toward the sound. Was there more to this situation than met the eye?
A moment later, a giant of a fellow with sleeves rolled to his elbows filled the doorway, tall as an oak beam and twice as broad.
His face was strong, sharp, unmistakably cut from the same stone as her abductor’s, and took them both in with a single, utterly unimpressed sweep.
Then the man released the slowest, driest exhale Violet had ever heard.
Nothing more.
As though that sigh itself was already enough.
Before Violet could grasp the significance, the big man turned on his heel without further comment and strode back up the steps, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Not my bloody problem.”
He, Drake, cursed, dragging a hand over his face. “Bloody perfect.”
Hah! So he was intimidating her without the knowledge of his family?
Interesting.
Surprisingly, any fear she might still have harbored disappeared. Why should she be afraid? They, the Furys, ought to know the friends behind her. She couldn’t just disappear. Suspicion would fall on them first. She lifted her chin and asked boldly, “Are you going to lock me up here?”
Drake barked a laugh, low, derisive, maddeningly amused. “Lock you up?” Those eyes bore into her. “Not today.”
Ah, good, then.
He strode to the nearest cell and reached for the iron bars and pushed the door wide, its hinges protesting with a miserable groan, stepping inside and turning back to her, arms spreading in a gesture far too theatrical for a man of his coldness.
Her eyes fell on the ring of keys hanging from the lock before lifting to him again.
Hmm.
“But this is what awaits those who cross me, Miss Sharpe.” His voice dropped to a dangerous softness. “Take a good look. I do not issue warnings twice.”
Violet stepped up to the cell, indulging the brute, her attention never leaving him as she did so. She even stuck her head in and glanced around when he didn’t move and simply continued to watch her.
She suddenly grinned.
Did the man truly believe her to be an innocent flower?
“What’s so funny—?”
His words cut off when her hands circled the cell door before she had time to think herself out of her mad idea. One bold reach. Once gliding action. The door swung shut between them with a ringing clang. She turned the key and tore it out, swiftly retreating before he could react.
Her gaze met his hard, flat one.
“What are you doing, Violet?”
Blazes. Never mind her spine, her name on his lips, with that calm drawl, sent shivers skittering through her very vitals! “Improving the situation,” she replied briskly.
“I’m serious, Violet.”
So was she. “Well,” she said, smoothing her skirts and praying her heart stayed in her breast, “you did say you were a visual man, Mr. Fury. I merely wished to see your face when I showed you something.” She inhaled and exhaled deeply before saying, “Just because I love flowers doesn’t mean I am a flower.
However, even if you continue to believe I am, you should know, some flowers are carnivores. ”
“Noted,” he murmured, and his continued calm seemed to fill the entire dungeon. “Open the door, Violet.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she returned, stepping back.
“Violet.”
Was it crazy to love the way he growled her name?
Yes, Violet! The man brought you to a dungeon!
“I’m sorry. I’m sure your brother will no doubt find you here soon.”
The man’s scar twisted into something dangerous and furious and—blazing skies—far too compelling.
“Miss Sharpe,” he warned, voice cracking like thunder, “unlock. This. Door. Do not bloody court trouble with me.”
“On the contrary,” Violet responded. “This might be the first sensible choice I have made since meeting you.” She paused and added as an afterthought, “Today.”
His scowl turned fierce.
“Good day, Mr. Fury.” She tossed the keys to the side and walked out, leaving the Brighton Brute locked in his own damn dungeon.
*
This bloody woman.
She had the audacity, the sheer, unmitigated audacity, to walk out on him and leave him locked in his own blasted cell.
Drake stared at the door for a full, stunned heartbeat.
Then another. His mind, usually sharp as a cutlass, supplied absolutely nothing except a confounded What in the seven bloody hells just happened?
He tested the bars with one hand.
Solid.
Immovable.
Bloody everlasting all.
“Violet,” he bellowed, knowing she would never return. He spat a violent curse and dragged a hand down his face.
Devil take it.
“Carnivorous flower,” he muttered, remembering her warning. Fine. He wouldn’t forget. Indeed, she was proving precisely that. Pretty, soft-smelling, all bright petals with hair like fire. But he was a creature from the pit, built to devour foolish little things like her.
That’s why you’re sitting locked in your own dungeon, is it?
Damn it.
Why did Reaper’s voice have to fill his damn head? Drake could practically see the man’s expression: amused, pitying, unbearably smug. The great Drake Fury reduced to this. He’d never live this down. His brother was going to die laughing if he ever learned of this.
Which he never would.
Not if Drake could help it.
And little Miss Violet Sharpe . . .