Chapter Six
Violet brushed her fingertips over the purple flowers of her potted heather, still jeweled with last night’s rain in the enclosed courtyard.
This spot was the reason she’d wanted this corner shop.
However, back then, she hadn’t known who her landlords were, something she’d only discovered after the fact.
And because of a certain landlord, she had hardly slept a wink last night.
Every time she closed her eyes she saw the same scene: Drake Fury, enormous and infuriated, gripping the iron bars of his own cell while she tossed the key and walked out.
It must be her most daring and delightful memory to date.
But blazes, daringness aside, what kind of madness had seized her?
First going with him at all, though she didn’t have much of a choice in that, and then locking him in, which she most decidedly had a choice in.
“I ought to be ashamed,” she muttered. Merely because she had no idea how long the man would be stuck there. Perhaps he still was. Well, the man deserved every second for almost frightening her senseless.
And for almost thrilling her senseless, too.
Curse him.
Who told him to be a handsome brute with a sinfully deep voice that wrapped around her senses along with a presence that filled every inch of space he occupied?
So unreasonable! The man was trouble forged from the darker pages of Greek myth.
Dangerously magnetic. No woman in her right mind would go near such a creature.
“Which is precisely why I must purge him from my thoughts.” And somehow from her life.
Her gaze drifted to the small butterwort blooming atop one of the barrels. Dainty. Pale. Unassuming. Yet capable of consuming an insect until not a trace remained.
A carnivorous little darling.
“Heh.” She mustn’t let arrogance outrun her sense. Persephone had still gotten caught by Hades. She should remember that. Hold to that.
Handsome brutes and underworld kings aside, she still had the far more pressing matter of her brother.
How in blazes’ name was she to enquire after his whereabouts without alerting Drake Fury?
Her temples throbbed at the mere prospect.
But who would know anything? Pip and Terry?
One of Angelica’s connections? Could she trust them with such a delicate matter?
With her future happiness, she could even argue.
The door creaked open, and Angelica’s head popped through, cheeks rosy and bonnet tied slightly askew. “I’m running to the market for more ribbon. Some matron wants six bouquets in shades of ‘mourning cheer.’”
Violet smiled faintly. “Be quick and careful.”
“Always.”
Angelica disappeared again, leaving the door cracked open and Violet alone with her thoughts again.
She stepped over to the butterwort and poked into a flower.
This one was purple, too. What could she say?
The color was dear to her. She’d love to procure some Sundews, also carnivorous.
Indeed, she found herself quite taken with the idea of collecting all the carnivorous plants she could find.
A hobby for her own pleasure, and, if she cared to admit, a small jest aimed squarely at that man.
Weren’t you supposed to stop thinking about that man?
Yes, but her mind, a traitorous thing as of yesterday, drifted to him yet again. The scar across his face. The way he’d looked at her, which she could only describe as both a puzzle and a provocation.
“Oh, stop it,” she snapped softly, shaking her head. “No more thinking of it.”
An unmistakable presence brushed at her back.
Her brows knit. Pip and Terry never hovered so silently behind her, but she dismissed the odd prickle along her spine, and without turning around, said, “The arrangements are on the table. You can take them and deliver them where we discussed.”
“I’m afraid I’m in no state to deliver flowers today.”
Violet’s blood iced and flared at once.
That voice.
Sinful.
Deep.
Dark as night.
She snapped around.
Drake Fury leaned against the door, arms crossed, ankles crossed, expression carved from pure devilry.
Morning light softened no part of him; it merely revealed the details she had tried very hard not to catalogue.
A day’s worth of stubble coated his jawline, and his hair was damp and unrepentant, a dark sweep that refused order.
Her heart took unreasonable liberties in her chest.
Other than that, the man cut an impeccable figure. Not like one who had spent the night in a dungeon.
He seemed to have read her mind. “Not expecting me?” he asked, lips curling into something wicked.
“Honestly?” she all but choked, still trying to recover her tongue. “No.”
“That’s rather na?ve, don’t you think?”
Of course it was. But a woman was allowed hope. Hope that dangerous men did not appear in one’s courtyard first thing in the morning looking like Hades himself. She straightened her spine. Most importantly. “How did you get into my shop?”
He held up a key.
She gasped. “You have a key to my shop?”
“I have keys to all the shops.”
How utterly disturbing! Heat flushed her neck. Was that even permissible? “Does that mean you should use them as you please?”
“Why not? Who is going to stop me?” he said mildly. “And you locked me up.”
“You seem to have gotten out of your little dungeon just fine.”
His eyes glittered dangerously. “Dismissing your actions rather casually, are you not?”
Violet shot back, “You entered my shop rather casually, did you not?”
“I own this shop.”
Sure enough, arguing with this man was like arguing with a brick. “That does not mean you own me.”
He pushed from the door and stepped up to her, the beat of her pulse tripping over itself as she craned her neck to keep his gaze.
“I think it means exactly that, Violet.”
How could one man be so shockingly arrogant? “I think you should reevaluate the relationship between a tenant and a landlord.”
“I tend to write my own rules about these things,” he said simply, darkly. “You left me there like a fool. Do you think that falls within these supposed bounds you speak of?”
Talking about bounds? This rogue. “You brought me to a dungeon!” she hissed, then inhaled deeply, refusing to go around in circles like this. “What are you doing here, Mr. Fury? Seeking revenge?”
“No, and call me Drake, since I believe we are well past any formalities, don’t you agree?”
Did he believe she’d be intimidated calling him intimately by his first name? “If not revenge, Drake, what are you here for, then?”
“For your punishment.”
The word cut like a swift, merciless stroke. The courtyard seemed to tilt a fraction, and a hollow opened in her chest, something vital slipping its moorings. Her brother’s voice, sharp, cruel, too familiar, slid across her memory.
I do not enjoy punishing you, but you leave me no choice. I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed me. You know what happens when you displease me.
Punishment.
Her knees felt oddly untrustworthy.
But then she caught the look in his dark eyes and all the cold turned to instant fire. She didn’t sense any danger from him, even though he looked as dangerous as any devil that ever existed.
He’s not Reginald.
Or her betrothed. Former betrothed.
Her breath slowly returned.
“Nothing to say?” he asked with that infuriating calm. “My fiery carnivorous flower, what will you do now?”
What would she do? “I’m considering my options.”
“You have very few.”
“I only need one.” And only one thing came to mind.
His eyes flashed with intrigue. “And what might that be?”
“Something,” Violet gritted out, “spectacularly foolish.”
That earned her an actual smile. “And what exactly would that be?”
“Punish you.”
She had just enough time to glimpse the flash of surprise on his face before she reached for his lapels and yanked him down, thanking God for his shock, and in the same breath she rose onto her toes and kissed him.
*
The fiery flame kissed him.
For one blistering heartbeat, Drake forgot how to draw a breath. Her mouth, impossibly soft and shockingly bold, pressed to his with none of the hesitation that had plagued her every other moment with him. She simply kissed him, as though he were hers to kiss.
And God help him, he let her.
Her lips tasted like tea and something sweet, honey, perhaps, and for a heated moment, he could not recall why this was meant to be a punishment.
Torment perhaps.
Torment of the most exquisite sort.
His hands found her waist before he could think rationally of it, fingers curving into the shape of her. She was blazing. She was fire. She was every wrong thing wrapped up in one maddeningly right mouth.
Perhaps this was the punishment.
The taste.
Her taste.
The sort of taste a man didn’t know he wanted before tasting it.
This is punishment, his mind insisted.
Yes, something darker answered, so punish back.
He had considered kissing her, but only for a second before the wiser, predominant part had known he’d never cross that line.
Now that the line was crossed . . . She gave a start against him when he tightened his hold, and the sound went straight into his bloodstream, lighting every inch of him with hunger.
He’d been touched before, kissed before, wanted before, but nothing had ever thundered through him like this slip of a red-haired menace pressed to his chest.
Punishment, was it? He could meet that challenge blindfolded.
Drake took her mouth with a command that instantly melted into something far more perilous.
His tongue swept against hers, urgent but sure, tasting everything she had to offer.
His hips pushed against her, and he had to stop himself from full on grinding his throbbing hardness against her, seeking a measure of relief.
Ah, perhaps this was punishment. But for whom?
She gasped softly, and the sound only drove him harder into the kiss.
Her fingers curled into his lapels and held him fast. Foolish girl. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not while she kissed him like this—like she was starving, or furious, or something his brain hadn’t yet considered.
He knew the sensation.
He felt every damned one of those things too.
To hell with it.
Why hold back?
His hands lowered to grip her arse and hoisted her up against him.
Her body aligned with his in one swift motion, the heat of her searing through every layer of fabric between them.
She fit—too well, too easily—as though she had been made to occupy exactly that space.
A sharp gasp burst against his mouth, and he nipped her lower lip, his teeth grazing the soft flesh before delving straight back into the kiss again.
He’d expected resistance of some form, instead, this little flame surged into him like she’d been waiting for the exact moment he lost his mind. Like she refused to be bested.
His mind snarled. His body burned. His pulse nearly bloody stopped.
This was not how it should be. He was the Fury. He was the one who seized, demanded, controlled.
Yet here he was, devoured by a woman barely reaching his shoulder.
Drake tore his mouth from hers with a ragged breath, but he didn’t let her go. “Is this,” he muttered, “your idea of punishment?”
Her gaze flickered with desire, defiance, and confusion all at once. So damn expressive. He didn’t miss any of it.
Hell. Call him bloody undone.
“The punish of this punishment will come later,” she breathed.
“What the devil does that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Ruin at the hands of a flame-haired flower.
He dragged in another breath, fighting to pull himself back from the edge she’d shoved him over.
He should set her down, he knew that. She was danger’s own daughter, marked by that warning-red hair.
But she stared up at him with those wide, luminous blue eyes, specked with spots of green, lips parted, breath unsteady, and Drake swore the shackles of fate curled around his ankles.
“If this is punishment,” he murmured, nipping at her chin, “allow me to return the favor.”
Her lips parted, and he took her mouth in a messy, wet, all-consuming kiss that left no doubt who held the reins. Her hands clenched in his coat, and satisfaction, hot and primal, ignited straight in his cock.
There. Let her feel that.
God help him . . . he was certainly feeling every damn thing. But she ought to know exactly who she was playing with.
She bit down on his tongue.
He jerked, cursing into her mouth. “Hellfire, woman.” It hurt like the devil. Still, maddeningly, his cock hardened even more. Injure him and arouse him in the same breath. What sort of man did that make him?
Damnation.
I’m losing my deuced mind.
“You bit me.”
She arched a brow. “You earned it,” she said, completely unrepentant.
He dragged back just an inch, tongue throbbing, his pulse a vicious hammer in his throat. “You bite like a damn street harpy,” he growled.
“So you’ve known many harpies, then?”
“My fair share.”
“That’s rather telling, don’t you think?” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I am one. Perhaps you have a type.”
The infuriating woman didn’t even have the decency to look alarmed. She looked pleased. Her lips, swollen from his mouth, curved at the corner, and something about that half-smile made him want to kiss it clean off her face.
He tightened his grip on her arse, holding her high against him so she could feel exactly what she was doing and in which direction this road led. “Perhaps I have. But careful, Violet. Another bite like that and I might forget you’re my tenant.”
“I think you already have.”
Could he even pretend he hadn’t at this point?
He wasn’t a green boy fumbling behind the docks.
He was two-and-thirty. A man who kept entire districts in line.
He did not allow his senses to be overrun by a woman.
The last one had been his mother and he had sworn, with a certainty carved into bone, that no woman would ever have that kind of hold over him again.
But this one looked at him with eyes blazing, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, and the ground beneath his feet shifted.
She could be your enemy.
A little spy.
Certainly not innocent. Most definitely not harmless. Absolutely a powder keg, and he’d just struck the match. He lowered her slowly, every inch of her sliding against him, and every last muscle shuddered with the effort of releasing her.
“Be ready tomorrow night at eight.”