Chapter Eighteen
Violet stared at the scowl on the man who had made love to her mere hours ago, the annoyance and fury in his voice cracking like a whip in the close stone chamber. Her gaze wrenched from his to pass over the room.
Another dungeon.
The third she had been brought to since becoming entangled with Drake Fury.
The first had been barren, empty of anything but his threats.
The second had been a secret stronghold of treasures, riches hoarded and guarded.
This one was most decidedly the worst. The scent of blood and sweat filled its space.
It coated the back of her throat, metallic and sour. This was not a place for display.
This was where matters of business were settled.
Where the family dealt with what could not be spoken of in the broad light of day. Her gaze returned to Drake and dropped to his bloody knuckles before settling on the man chained to the wall, slumped on the floor, his face a myriad of purple and bloody bruises.
The man’s grin directed solely at her.
He knew.
Coldness spread through her bones like sheets of ice. She had not mistaken his identity. On the contrary, the moment their eyes locked, more memories spun through her mind. Memories of this man and her brother in meetings at different times and spots in the house over the years.
And he now recognized her.
“Did he tell you who he works for?” Violet asked Drake, though her eyes remained on the bloody ruffian.
“Violet, you don’t belong here,” Drake said, almost in a scolding tone, yet not quite. “Reaper, get her the hell out of here.”
“Belong?” Violet glanced at Drake, then.
“Where do I belong? Is that not for me to decide? If you do not wish me here, then tell your brothers to stand down and allow me to leave. If I don’t belong, don’t keep me where I don’t belong.
” She ignored the tick in his jaw. She’d fallen for this man.
Only now did the understanding take shape, dawning on her with startling clarity. She’d fallen for him . . .
A cold man.
A violent man.
A man who kept himself divided.
Right. Peace never lasts. To think she’d actually believed she understood him. She didn’t understand anything. Fighting as a sport and this . . . The blood on his knuckles, though the same detestable color, took on a different meaning.
Should I just tell him the truth?
Then he could toss her beside her brother’s cutthroat and be done with it.
In the end, no matter what she built, it could all be taken from her by powerful men.
Men such as her brother. Men such as Drake.
If she told the truth right now, he’d surely seize her, wouldn’t he? She’d become a true prisoner.
What did you hope for, Vi?
She almost laughed. What had she hoped for? That he would be regretful? That he’d fight for her to stay in his bed? Yes, if she was being truthful. That he might, just might, have some trace of affection for her? Also yes, humiliatingly. That she could trust him? Yes. That most of all.
She knew better than this. Had always known better. Her brother had taught her early and thoroughly what it meant to live at the mercy of a powerful man’s decisions.
“Violet. Let’s talk upstairs.”
Talk? What would talk help? “Do you know who he works for or not?” she demanded.
“No,” Drake said, clenching his jaw.
Her brother’s cutthroat laughed again. “So this is the bird you’re so worried about?”
“Shut your mouth,” Drake growled, “or you lose your tongue.”
Violet grimaced. Would this man reveal her identity? Fear suddenly skittered down her spine. She didn’t want Drake to discover the truth. She couldn’t trust him with the truth. Above all, she didn’t want her newfound freedom to be wrested away from her. But what was she to do now?
She needed to regroup.
Come up with a plan. A good plan.
Steeling herself, she stated flatly, “I wish to return home.”
An instant scowl darkened his face. “No. That’s not even an—”
“Let her go home, Drake,” Deveraux interrupted. “Unless you plan to lock her in a dungeon, too.”
Violet sent him a look of gratitude.
“What rot are you speaking?” Drake growled.
“Rot is keeping a woman against her will.”
Drake’s gaze snapped fire. “You think I’m keeping her against her will?”
Violet flinched.
“She has just said she wishes to go home,” Deveraux pointed out, and the accusation hung there, heavy and undeniable.
“Deveraux,” Reaper warned quietly. “Careful what you speak. But he is right, frère. If your little flower wants to go home, let her go home. We have the men who attacked you.”
“There are others,” Drake insisted. “It’s too dangerous.”
Deveraux spoke, “Who won’t do anything while we have this one and the other.”
Violet nodded in agreement. “For now, I believe I’m safe. I’m sure you will retrieve the information you desire and deal with the matter accordingly.” She grimaced at her own formal tone.
“And what of tomorrow?” Drake demanded, eyes boring into hers.
Tomorrow. The word scraped along her nerves. “Tomorrow is for tomorrow.” All she wanted to do was escape today.
His gaze refused to let her go, something dark and restless moving behind their depths. “We still need to talk.”
“We can talk another day.” Honestly, she didn’t want to talk anymore. What was left to discuss? All the answers had already become clear to her.
“For what it’s worth,” the cutthroat drawled, “I agree with those two.” He nodded at Drake’s brothers. “Let the lady go.”
Another chill swept through Violet. Did he not plan to out her?
A man like this, a cutthroat with leverage in his hands, should want to use it.
That was simply what leverage was for. Unless using it served no purpose.
And for him to have no purpose to reveal her to the Furys was even more concerning than doing so.
Could her brother already know?
No, no. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Violet.
If he had known, he would already have come for her.
Unless . . . he was toying with her. That would be very much his style.
Holy blazes. She needed to leave. She needed to run.
She needed to send word to Holly and Pippa.
Immediately. Before anything else. They had helped her escape—hidden her, stood between her and her brother’s reach without a care for him—and if her brother had found her, he would trace the path back to them without mercy.
He had never required proof to punish. Suspicion had always been enough for him.
And Violet would not be the reason they suffered for her sake.
She had gained her freedom after years of pain. She would not lay it down at any man’s feet now. Not her brother’s. Not Drake’s.
Not even her own heart’s.
*
Drake had never wanted the head of a brother before.
He slammed Deveraux into the wall the moment he entered the tap room of the tavern, the impact shuddering up his own arm.
How dare he drag Violet into the darkest part of them, into the place where mercy died and monsters ruled?
How dare he let her see the beasts they were?
The beast Drake was.
He had managed it so carefully until now.
The violence existed, yes. She had known that from the beginning.
But there was a difference between knowing a man was dangerous and watching him work.
Between understanding darkness in the abstract and standing inside it while it raged.
Thank God he’d been in conversation at that moment and not pummeling the man.
Deveraux had still stripped that careful distance away in a single decision, and Drake could not get it back.
She had seen them now.
Seen him.
It had taken everything to keep himself from taking her into his arms, clasping a lock of hair between his fingers, and carrying her off, away from the brutal reality of his world.
The irony did not escape him. He could fight Ox in front of her, yet he couldn’t bear to let her see him rough up an enemy.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” he demanded, forearm across Deveraux’s chest, glaring at his brother.
“What’s wrong with you?” Deveraux shot back. “You take her to a fight, expose her to the danger, and then want to keep it from her? How fickle.”
The word raised his hackles. “What the devil do you know?”
“I know you’re making a bloody fool of yourself.”
“You—”
Reaper clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Fighting won’t solve the matter. Dagger already took her home. You should have followed them and discussed matters with her.”
“You heard her,” Drake snarled over his shoulder. “She didn’t want me to escort her, nor talk to her.”
Deveraux snorted. “When has that ever stopped you? Never, from what I can tell. I’m curious, brother, what has you so scared?”
Fury exploded. “Who the hell is scared?”
“You.”
Reaper stepped between them, and kneed Deveraux between the legs, the man collapsing with a grunt. “I warned you to watch your mouth.”
Drake grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room, the legs splintering on impact as it struck the far wall. Scared? He couldn’t even bloody deny what Deveraux taunted.
Why the devil had Violet brought up the matter of lover? The word was like a damn echo from a cursed lineage, one that dragged his father’s sins roaring back to life, and the root of this restlessness in him.
He hadn’t been able to utter the word yes even though he didn’t want her to leave his bed, but he couldn’t say no either, leaving him stranded in hell.
His father had lovers, too many to count on all his brothers’ damn hands, and he had ruined every single one of them in one way or another. Some by neglect. Some by cruelty. Some simply by proximity.
Drake had sworn he would never be that man.
But damn it. He had wanted her to stay, and God help him, he had wanted her in his bed, warm and trusting, soft against him.
The ache of his want for her settled into him like a fresh blasted wound.
Drake pinched the bridge of his nose, breath coming hard.
He believed he’d done right. He’d held back.
He had chosen vagueness. Deflected. He had let her leave with Dagger.
And what had that changed?
He only grew more restless. He only felt like he’d failed more damn supremely. Violet’s absence settled heavy, a hollow that violence could not fill and fury could not drown. And for the first time, he had no idea what came next.
He cursed.
Reaper exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Let’s take a moment to calm down.”
Drake glared at his brother.
“Very well,” Reaper amended, “don’t calm down. However, there’s nothing you can do about your little flower right now but give her a moment to catch her breath. In the meantime, while she does that, you can settle the matter of this foe of yours.”
“Have one of the others handle them.” He didn’t trust himself to keep their number one family rule.
Reaper nodded. “You should move your treasures in the meantime.”
Drake’s brows furrowed. “Why is that?”
“We might have been seen, frère.”
Drake sighed. Of bloody course.
Reaper reached over the bar for a bottle of cognac. “But first, have a drink. You look like you need one.”
Deveraux staggered to his feet. “Give me that.”
Reaper lifted the bottle out of his reach and handed it to Drake. Deveraux backed down with a scowl.
Drake didn’t drink at once. He held the bottle by the neck, knuckles whitening, taking a moment to collect the last of his damn calm, which had never evaporated this fast.
Reaper watched him for a moment. A coin suddenly appeared between his fingers. “Maxen was so damn furious I thought he’d wring your neck.”
Deveraux scoffed. “Still might. I still might.”
“Where is Maxen?” Drake asked, ignoring Deveraux. The sight of his face still made him want to put a fist in it.
“With his wife,” Reaper answered, coin flicking from finger to finger. “Says to deal with your matters before he deals with you.”
Drake cursed again. “What about Serpent? He’s not been home lately, has he?”
Reaper’s coin vanished into his palm, and he shook his head.
Slightly worrying. They couldn’t afford for their brother to retreat within himself right now.
“Serpent will surface,” Deveraux said. “I understand he always does before things turn for the worse.”
Reaper grunted. “What do you know? What if he doesn’t?”
“Then we drag him back,” Drake muttered.
“Same as always.” His gaze slid to the shattered chair as he tore the cork free with his teeth, spat it aside, and took a long swallow.
The burn did nothing but summon an unbidden image of Violet, drinking straight from the bottle in his dungeon, unafraid, defiant, looking at him like he had lost his mind.
Perhaps he had.
Perhaps the best thing he could do was turn his back on her.
If I do nothing, I cannot ruin her.
Only if he did nothing, he would lose her entirely. The certainty flared hot and sharp. He would never earn another moment of her attention. And that, worse than becoming his father, felt unbearable.
Drake slumped against the counter of the bar.
What the devil was wrong with him? What on God’s earth was this tightness in his chest?
The door of the tavern slammed open and Knight stepped into the room. “We have a name for the man after you.”
Drake straightened and turned to his brother. “Who?”
“Reginald Thickett Graves, the Earl of Barrowmere.”