Chapter Fourteen
Violet stared at a face carved with rage.
Dear lord above.
This was Maxen Fury in all his grim glory. The set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes, so much like Drake’s, the unmistakable authority in his bearing. She had glimpsed it before, right after she and her friends informed him that his now wife, Calliope Turner, might have been kidnapped.
Stars, it was one thing after another tonight.
A sliver of guilt pushed into her chest. She and Drake had chosen silence when his brothers arrived.
Had remained hidden. Heat climbed her throat.
This was not merely a brother finding another brother wounded.
This was a man discovering secrets layered atop secrets, and she was suddenly, unmistakably, placed in the middle of them.
“I thought you said if we ignored them, they’d leave?” The words slipped right out before she could stop them.
On the cot with her, Drake groaned while his brother’s eyes narrowed, fists clenching.
Foolish, foolish, Vi!
She peeked at Drake, but his full attention was on their new company.
“They down there, frère?” a voice called down.
“Yes,” the big brotherly beast growled.
“What I mean to say,” Violet said hurriedly, “is that I believed you were our pursuers.”
“I see,” the man said, giving no indication whether he believed her or not. “You could say we were that. Pursuers. Concerned pursuers.”
“Let off, Maxen,” Drake growled.
Violet cleared her throat. “I think I should go home. You should, too. I imagine you have some things to discuss.”
Drake looked back at her. “You’re not going back.”
Her eyes snapped wide. “Why not?”
“Too dangerous.”
“For you, perhaps. I’m in disguise!”
Drake shook his head. “Your hair was visible. I’m not taking the chance until I know the threat has been eliminated.”
Her hand reached out to capture a strand of her hair that had long since loosened from her cap. “I’m sure I am fine.” The face of the man who had first attempted to stab Drake flashed in her mind, and an uncomfortable knot formed in the center of her heart. She pushed the memory aside.
“I agree with my brother on this,” Maxen said. He looked over to Drake, who shifted to perch on the edge of the bed, reaching for the cognac that had been discarded at some point.
Violet snatched the bottle from him before he could raise it to his lips. “I need this more than you.” She took a healthy swallow, the liquor leaving a pleasant sting in its wake.
He merely arched a brow.
“I have a business to run,” Violet told them after the burn settled. “I can’t simply leave it.”
Another two brothers appeared behind the first one. She recognized them as Reaper and Knight, who had already caught them in a dungeon together. Reaper pushed past Maxen, whistling as he took in Drake’s loot.
“You stitched up, frère?”
“A mere scratch,” Drake answered.
Violet snorted, earning a hard look from the man himself. What? I didn’t say you fainted, she sent back with her eyes.
Reaper’s gaze lingered a fraction too long on Drake’s side, mouth curving into an unimpressed line. “You say that every time.”
“And I am still here,” Drake said.
Maxen’s jaw tightened.
These brothers were truly . . .
“Such treasures, frère.” His eyes lit on her. “Is she the most recent one, seeing as you trust to bring her here when we didn’t even know about your spot?”
Violet sighed. “I’m not a treasure. We were in a pickle.”
“A pickle? We were all in a pickle, little flower. Fortunately, or we would never have known this den existed.”
Maxen turned on his heel and strode from the room without a backward glance. Knight followed on his heels.
“Reaper,” Knight snapped.
Violet grimaced as Reaper grinned at her, shot his brother a filthy look, and headed out as well.
“I cannot believe that just happened.” Had this been back in London, she’d have been compromised. Ruined beyond repair. A bubble of laughter erupted. “How . . . different.”
Drake scowled, dragging a hand over his face. “This is a nightmare.”
“Is it that bad that they know about your dungeon?”
He sighed. “They’ll expect me to talk about it now.”
She handed him back the liquor. “You talked about it to me.”
Those dark eyes met hers. He accepted the bottle and muttered, “Speaking to those arses is like speaking to gargoyles. Bloody cringing.”
“You mean speaking from the heart.”
His lips pulled up in a sneer. “I wouldn’t call it heart.”
Hard man. So in denial. “Well, I must be mistaken then.”
He snorted into the bottle, taking another big sip. “Don’t confuse being annoyed with being afflicted.”
Confuse?
That was more than correct. Confusion had a way of hiding among distractions until every last one was stripped away.
Or a big, furious, focus point entered the scene.
Then it did not trickle back in, it flooded every pore, every crevice, every nerve.
Pleasure still whispered through her body in a way she had no words for. What had that even been?
She still had no words.
But just when she thought him a true brute, the man spoke of his mother with a smidgeon of bitterness edged by loyalty.
A man who guarded stolen riches like wounds rather than trophies.
And most unsettling to her heart of all was this place—a place he’d hidden from his brothers—into which he had brought her without hesitation.
You can dissect it all later.
Too much on the surface did not align. Too much suggested there was more to Drake than danger and teeth. And she could not yet decide whether that made him safer or far more perilous to her than she had ever imagined.
He knows you have a brother.
Right . . . She’d forgotten she’d revealed she had a brother . . .
“Your brothers must be waiting.” She slipped from the bed, the material scraping against her thighs. Lord, she was going to dream of this, wasn’t she? Would she even be able to sleep? She certainly required a bath. “And I truly do not see the need to intrude on your space.”
“You won’t be intruding.”
Her eyes narrowed on his pale face. “Very well, I shall rephrase. I’d rather not spend the night in a tavern with a group of men.”
He rose to his feet. “Either I stay at your shop, or you stay with us.”
“How is that any different?” One man, two men, three, she’d still be alone with them. Him. The most dangerous place was not a tavern full of men, but wherever Drake chose to cast his gaze. She needed a moment to breathe, and quite frankly, this man, he made breathing rather . . . airless.
“It most likely won’t be any different, since I can’t promise my brothers won’t pile into the shop after me.”
And shock Angelica if she failed to boot them out early enough in the morning? No, thank you.
“Fine, tavern it is.”
Just don’t reveal anything else to arouse suspicion, Violet.
*
How many times had Drake cursed tonight?
It must be some kind of record. If blasphemy were coin, he could have bought a fleet by now and sailed far from this wretched evening that had not gone to plan.
While everything had gone wrong, she’d surprised him at each turn.
He had contingencies for enemies, for betrayal, for violence.
He had no contingency for Violet Sharpe.
And with her staring at him like that, all he wanted to do was drag her back to that cot and kiss her senseless.
“Well,” she demanded. “Are you just going to stand there and stare at me the whole night?”
If he weren’t uncertain whether he’d collapse again, he’d have no trouble doing just that.
He choked on an unexpected laugh. She was so damn bold with a wit to match.
It was a pity he had no time with his brothers waiting above.
He could imagine no finer indulgence than the sinful luxury of her mouth.
She was so . . . damnably beautiful. Was it any wonder his trousers were wet at the moment?
Drake grimaced at the reminder and forced his mind elsewhere, far away from the memory of them finding pleasure in each other’s arms, at the sounds she made, at the ease with which she had undone him on the cot right beside him.
He swallowed back a groan. “I thought you’d fight against our protection. ”
“Would I win against your stubbornness?” she asked.
One corner of his mouth ticked upward. “That would depend on your definition of victory.”
She scoffed. “As I thought.” She smiled as though she knew precisely what thoughts she’d provoked and did not care in the slightest.
Bloody hell.
He couldn’t understand how her mind worked at times.
“Besides, by tomorrow, I imagine everything will have returned to its proper order. Correct?”
Drake set the cognac on the table, sensing the question carried multiple meanings. “We can only bloody hope.”
She stepped up to him, her neck craning slightly, giving him a view of the column of her neck. His body stirred.
Damnation.
“That’s not good enough, Drake. I believe I’ve shown more than enough fealty to stifle any suspicion, have I not?”
He inclined his head. “For now.”
“Then shall we return to your lair? I trust you’ll provide me a room.” She regarded him coolly. “And not in a dungeon.”
He hesitated, suddenly questioning his judgment. Should he just send her back to her shop and have Saint and Knight as guards?
She poked his chest, snapping him out of his misgivings.
“You are the one imposing your presence on me, Drake.” She cocked her head. “Why do I get the sense you are hesitating now? Are you perhaps scared? Want to send me home?”
“Presumptuous, love.” He was not afraid. Not of her. Could that be said about what she drew out of him? His gaze flicked to the cot and back to her. If she had any notion how deeply she pierced his discipline, the little flame wouldn’t provoke him.
Just get through the night.
He had survived worse nights than this. On the other hand, protection had always been simple. You placed men where danger might come. You drew lines and dared the world to cross them. You knew the shape of the threat and you answered it accordingly.
This was different. He knew the shape of this threat intimately. Had felt it on the cot not an hour ago. He could not place guards between himself and that. Could not draw a line his own nature would respect.
The danger, here, might be him.
A throat cleared from outside, and Reaper slid into view, one shoulder peeling off the wall as though he had been there some time. Which, damn him, he likely had.
Drake stiffened, temper sparking swift and hot. “What the devil are you doing eavesdropping?”
Reaper shot back, “What are you doing dallying when we should be clearing out?” His gaze flicked pointedly between them. “Save the flirting for another hour.”
“Who’s flirting?” Drake snapped.
“I am not flirting,” Violet shot back at the same instant.
Their eyes met.
Reaper chuckled. “Then I digress. You are most certainly, unmistakably, not flirting.”
Violet snorted. “I would never flirt with a brute.”
Drake snorted in response, and the compulsion caught him unaware. It was beneath him. Bloody undignified. And it earned him a glare. A wave of dizziness suddenly washed over him. Devil take it. Not again.
Not. Again.
He swayed, catching himself on the edge of the table.
Violet’s brows furrowed, threading with concern. “Drake?”
“What’s wrong?” Reaper asked, stepping forward.
“Nothing,” Drake bit out, blasting an oath at his body. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” Violet said flatly. She turned on Reaper. “He fainted earlier.”
“Damn it,” Drake snapped, trying hard to push the haze aside. “I did not faint.”
Her brow arched. “Collapsed and lost consciousness? Forgive me, Lord Strong, but that is called a faint.”
He swore softly. “The pain got the better of me.” Amongst other things. He suspected he was still not thinking straight at the moment.
“Is it getting the better of you now?” Violet asked, her fingers circling his elbow. Did she know what she was doing?
“Frère.”
“Leave it, Reaper,” Drake growled. “I’m fine.”
Another figure appeared in the doorway. Knight. “There are scouts outside,” he informed.
Reaper’s face twisted, half turning to Knight. “Didn’t we deal with them all?”
Knight shook his head once. “It seems a nest has been unleashed. Quite the enemy you have courted.”
“Then shouldn’t we wait a bit longer?” Violet asked, concerned.
Knight’s gaze flicked to the room, to Drake, to the door. “It’s best to defend from a position of strength. We know nothing of this house.”
Drake flinched at the jab. “We return to the tavern.”
He straightened, intending to move. One step.
That was all he managed. The room tilted sharply, the edges of it blurring as though someone had struck the world at an angle.
Sound dulled. The candlelight dimmed. Irritation at his body’s failure chafed at him, but even that frustration came sluggish. He blinked once. Twice.
Drake cursed.
His knees gave out without warning. The table slipped from his grasp.
“Drake!” Violet cried.
He reached for her on instinct, fingers closing around her arm as he buckled. She staggered but held, steering him back toward the cot as he collapsed onto the mattress. Reaper surged forward, but she waved him off, aiding him as he slumped against the mattress.
“I told you,” she glared at him, “you are not fine.”
“I’m . . .” The protest died as merciless darkness surged.
“Get him onto the bed,” Reaper ordered. “Now.”
“He is on the bed,” his little flame snapped back.
His? How had such a thought even formed? He crushed it at once.
“I mean lay him down,” his brother groused.
“Drake?” Violet called softly.
His grip on her tightened. “Fine.”
All went black.