Chapter Eight
Violet had never felt so pleased with herself in her life. His expression confirmed it—she had made the right choice. Granted, the clothing she’d purchased from Pip, but it had the desired effect.
Astonishment.
Not just from him, but all the others present. But blazes, they were an intimidating bunch. She instantly recognized the one behind the bar, sleeves rolled up just like when he’d walked in on them in the dungeon.
Honestly, she hadn’t known what to expect by dressing this way and boldly stepping into their lair alone.
To begin with, she hadn’t expected the place to be so devoid of people.
She had only been here once before, when she came with Holly, Pippa, and their husbands to inform the brothers of Calliope’s kidnapping.
Other than that, she had never crossed paths with any of them, save for Drake.
However, she suspected no one dared to enter here for a pint after a hard day of work.
The man with a scar slashing his left brow and blood on his face spoke first. “Well, well, well. How come the wind blew a little flower into our midst?” He glanced at Drake. “What have you been up to while I was running errands, frère?”
“I’d simply like to know what’s going on in general,” the brother with a scar lining his jaw asked. “Just what should my brother be ready for?”
Heh.
So the rest of her landlords were blissfully unaware of the trouble this one stirred.
“Forgive the intrusion.” Violet lifted a hand in a flutter of fingers. “We’ve yet to be properly introduced. I am Violet Sharpe, a tenant of yours.”
A man, face also bloodied but with no scars, stepped forward and bowed. “Deveraux Fury at your service. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
The other bloodied man snorted. “So gentlemanly. Don’t be fooled by him, little flower. He’s the worst of us. I’m the best. Reaper, they call me.”
Violet had absolutely no idea how one was meant to respond to such an introduction. And that couldn’t possibly be his real name, could it? Reaper. Downright sinister.
Drake stepped forward, squarely between Violet and this brother called Reaper, blocking off her view of him. “Don’t encourage this half-French rogue.”
He gestured to the man behind the bar. “Knight.” The man behind him. “Dagger.” And the one sitting at a table. “Saint. Maxen and Serpent are out.”
Right.
These names . . .
Were they like underworld nicknames?
To each his own, she supposed.
She didn’t want to even begin to fathom how these men got all their scars. The only ones without scars on their faces were the first man who introduced himself, Deveraux, and the one who was called Knight.
Drake’s fingers curled around her wrist and pulled her aside. His eyes narrowed on her, dark and unamused. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you going to release me?”
“No.”
Very well, then. Strangely, she was not afraid.
There was a flutter of trepidation, certainly, but it had little to do with these men or their fearsome expressions.
Rather, though she would never confess it aloud, they struck her as a collection of unexpectedly soft-hearted fellows.
Not that she believed them incapable of extreme violence, but not a single instinct of danger stirred in their presence.
And it would have stirred the moment she stepped inside and they all turned their eyes on her.
Years of living under the thumb of her brother had taught her to hone this sense.
Her gaze dropped to his hand. Blazes, just looking at them, she could feel them kneading—
Absolutely not, Violet. Compose yourself!
Her gaze lifted back to his, those dark pools boring into her.
One single brow of his arched.
She lifted her chin. “Didn’t you wish to meet up?”
“Ah, so this is your rebellion, then?” he correctly guessed. “Your move?”
“Of course,” Violet retorted. “I’m not the best at chess, but I do have a bold play or two.”
His lips lifted, mocking. “I have a whole book.”
“I’m sure you do.” She crossed her arms, unmoved. “I still don’t know why we are meeting.”
His stare did not soften. If anything, it grew hotter. Sharper. His gaze dipped briefly to the trousers she wore, dragging back up to her gaze, gooseflesh hollowing in its wake.
Their kiss lay simmering between them.
And no mere memory either, but the very sensation of their lips colliding. The pressure of his mouth, the unforgettable heat of it, the way his breath had done far more than stolen hers. Why did she have to relive this now of all times? In this den of criminals.
Hah! Violet. Not even Persephone had so willingly stepped toward the underworld.
His gaze held hers for what seemed to be a lifetime before he said, “You’re really not afraid, are you?”
“Should I be?” she asked lightly, allowing her entire bearing to blast challenge.
“A normal woman would.”
“Perhaps I am not a normal woman.”
He leaned in closer, until she could almost breathe in the very essence of him. “Then you are reckless.”
Arrogant oaf. “So if a woman does not fit neatly into your definition of normal, she is therefore reckless?”
Something in her tone must have caught his attention because he cursed.
His fingers tightened around her wrist before he seemed to realize it, then loosened slightly. “Damn it, that is not what I meant. Any woman would be wary in these circumstances.”
She smiled, couldn’t help herself. Not any woman. “Is that so?”
A mockingly uttered French remark interrupted his response. She turned toward the brother who had sidled up to them. Had she heard that right?
“He steps on his own tongue,” Reaper translated with a grin she could only describe as wicked. “Frequently.”
Blast. This was a conundrum. Should she know French or not?
She spoke the language fluently, but if Drake learned this information, his scrutiny would only sharpen.
She could not afford to invite further questions from a man who already looked at her far too closely.
Whose presence glowed with a heat she could detect even now.
A misstep.
He was waiting for a misstep.
“Be gone, before I make you,” Drake snapped.
“Can’t do that, frère.” The man’s gaze dipped to where Drake held her wrist. “Are you planning to whisk her to where sunlight dares not follow?”
“I would like to know the very same thing.” She should probably yank her hand away, but an unaccountable pull kept her suspended in his hold.
Worse still, she feared that if she pulled away, she might reveal just how very much she did not wish to.
And why, of all moments, did her heart choose now to flutter like a blossom caught in a sudden gust?
Drake shot his brother a look so black, Violet thought the man might burst into apology on the spot.
Heavens. Were they always like this? A pinch of envy nibbled at her heart.
“Leave before I bloody the rest of your face.”
Never mind.
“Let’s not go that far,” another voice joined them. The man named Dagger. He appeared to be the sensible one of the bunch. “What, precisely, is transpiring here?”
“None of your business,” Drake snapped, his patience wearing thin, it seemed.
“Fine,” Dagger said simply. “Then I’ll attach myself to your side like a barnacle until it becomes my business.”
Reaper barked a laugh. “He means it, frère. He once shadowed Maxen for a week. Nearly drove him to murder.”
“I’d rather you tell me directly,” Dagger said.
Drake muttered a low curse, the words rolling from his tongue like thunder, his annoyance palpable. Violet glanced between them, these men with blood on their knuckles, scars on their faces, and menace in their bearing, and something inside her twisted in an unexpected way.
Fascination.
What interesting, uncommon dynamics.
Brighton’s Brute, however, looked one heartbeat away from committing a crime.
So this was what it looked like when siblings cared about each other?
It was impossible not to grasp their underlying affection for one another.
They cared. Perhaps not gently. Certainly not tenderly.
But fiercely, loudly, with threats and scowls and protectiveness that she would never experience in her lifetime with her own brother.
And that was perfectly fine. She had her shop and her hard-won freedom. She did not require such bonds.
Drake squeezed her wrist again. “I’m taking this little spitfire out for a night of fun.”
Violet nearly spit out air at that. Her gaze swung to Drake.
Spitfire?
No, she refused to be sidetracked by that. A night of fun? What fun? She couldn’t possibly imagine anything with this man would be fun.
Liar.
But fun?
Why did she not mind the proverbial shiver trickling down her spine? Why did she not mind the burn of his fingers clamping around her wrist?
*
Bloody. Hell.
The moment Violet Sharpe stepped through the door dressed like provocation and shaped like every mistake a man might willingly make, Drake knew his evening had gone straight to hell.
Damn the woman.
Of all the nights for the little spitfire to waltz into their sanctum, she had chosen this one.
Of course, it would still have been inconvenient under normal circumstances since he disliked surprises, disliked deviation, disliked women in trousers staring at him with beautiful blue eyes as though they knew something he did not.
But tonight? Tonight, her arrival would sound a horn through the ranks.
Straight to Maxen.
Not that he feared his brother.
Maxen was many things, unyielding, uncompromising—for the most part—and forged of iron, but he was also the backbone of their family.
Without him, there would be no home, no dominion, no Fury brood.
Without him, they would never have found each other.
And for that reason alone, Drake rarely went against him. If ever.
Never had there been a cause either. Or a clashing circumstance big enough. Violet Sharpe, on the other hand . . . ah, she was a complication wrapped in a complication, tied with a bright little bow of more complication.
Not that even the woman herself posed the danger.