Chapter Twenty-Three
The warehouse opened beneath Violet like a grim tale of a story about to unfold in all its horrible glory.
She stared down at the men fighting below, her heart lodged in her throat.
Foul-smelling torches burned low near the walls, throwing more shadow than light, the air thick with smoke and sweat and the unmistakable stench of blood.
She had seen enough blood these past few days to last a lifetime.
Below, the sound of excitement rose up to her in surges.
Only dread stirred within her.
She hated the elevation. Had not been born to watch others from above.
Not even plays in the theatre. Not in any situation where she looked down on others.
She belonged in the thick of things. Always had.
This vantage point stripped her of all of that.
It made her a spectator to violence she could not stop, a woman set apart as though she were too fine, too delicate to be among such ruffians, when in truth she felt far more out of place here than she ever had amongst them. Even when in danger.
And from above, she saw everything.
The progression of the blows. The moments of hesitation. The way one man faltered just before he fell, and how another waited precisely for that weakness. She saw what the men below did not—patterns, intentions, the manner in which it might unfold. It made her stomach churn.
Violet cast a sideways glance to take stock of all the details within reach, careful not to turn fully. Two men stood close behind her, one to either side. Another blocked the narrow door at the end of the gallery, arms folded, expression blank.
How to escape?
Percival stood beside her, close enough that his arm brushed the sleeve of her coat. His gaze gleamed as he watched the fight below, bright with anticipation, with satisfaction. The sight of it made something inside her recoil.
Simply dash off.
You escaped Drake once, remember.
So true.
She clenched her hands in her skirts.
Drake was somewhere in this building. In what condition, she could not know, and the not knowing was its own particular misery.
She should have told him that she loved him.
She’d done everything else boldly, except for that.
Now he might die before her very eyes, and those words would remain forever trapped in her heart.
How was it that regret always came two touches too late?
No, Vi. Until you both drop dead, there is still time.
That’s right. She shouldn’t lose hope too soon. Drawing in a steadying breath, she gave a firm, inward nod.
“Are you enjoying the fight, my dear?”
Urgh. Detestable creature.
“What do you imagine?” she hissed back, refusing to look at Percival. She’d have to whack him on the back of the head as he did Drake.
“That, my dear, I cannot say. You’ve changed quite a lot. Nevertheless, after the main event, ours will begin.”
She scoffed. She hadn’t changed all that much. She simply took control over her own life. Some men simply couldn’t stand such a thing. “You plan to force my hand here?”
“I’d have provided the grandest wedding for you had you not spread your legs for another man.”
Violet pulled a face. She’d exhausted her capacity for shock where Percival was concerned, but such crude words for something that had been so precious and wondrous sat ill with her. “What grand? With a viper tongue like yours, it would have been a sad affair no matter the pomp.”
“Be that as it may,” he clipped back. “A clergyman is on his way as we speak.”
By blazes. The man was serious. She needed to part from him as soon as possible. She was about to retort when a disturbance rippled through the crowd below. A shout went up, sharp and anticipatory, and the ring of bodies parted.
Violet’s breath caught.
Two men dragged Drake forward by the arms and shoved him into the open space at the center of the floor.
He stumbled, and her hands shot out to the railing.
He looked . . . haggard. She’d never seen him this downtrodden.
Not even when he had stubbornly insisted he was not near collapse from blood loss.
This was different. His face was ashen, lips drawn tight, his posture pitched ever so slightly off.
One shoulder sagged lower than the other, his head dipping as if the effort of holding it upright cost him dearly.
She could see, even from here, the careful way he rationed his breathing.
Her heart cried out for him.
Violet’s gaze snapped to the man waiting opposite him.
The victor of the last match.
She had scarcely spared him a thought before—he had been merely another fighter—but seen now, set against Drake’s unsteady frame, he looked monstrous.
A mountain of a man. Broad as a carriage door, shoulders packed thick with muscle, his fists already scarred and swollen from prior blows.
He rolled his neck once, lazily. Even bigger than the Ox!
Her fingers tightened over the railing.
Her gaze swept the crowd in a frantic search. Faces blurred together. Where was her brother? Was he not meant to fight Drake himself?
No.
The realization struck with sickening clarity.
He did not mean to dirty his own hands. He meant only to step in for the final blow. Was this not against every rule they claimed to honor?
Really, Reginald? You’re this much of a coward?
Percival leaned his head into Violet’s, and she jerked her head away before he could touch her.
“Look closely, my dear,” he said, unbothered by her slight and unnaturally tolerant. “Any man who dares lay a hand on what is mine will not see another dawn.”
The vile words slithered up her arm, leaving a foul imprint in their wake. If she were powerful enough . . . Fingers tightened on the railing until her palms ached. Every sin received its due.
The fighter shifted his weight, grinning.
Drake barely had time to lift his guard.
The blow came hard and fast, a brutal arc that caught him high on the shoulder and drove him sideways. A collective roar surged from the crowd as Drake staggered, his balance gone for a terrifying second.
“Drake!” The cry tore from her before she could stop it. Her body surged forward, ready to fling herself from the gallery and land beside him, clawing, striking, screaming if it meant placing herself between him and that monster.
A hard grip locked around her arm, digging into her flesh.
Violet flinched, twisting violently out of his hold. “Let me go, you coxcomb!”
Percival glared at her. “Do not humiliate me, Evangeline.”
You humiliate yourself, you oaf!
She glared back before her gaze whipped to Drake again.
Her beloved brute straightened, but how could she not see the cost of it?
The way his left arm lagged. The other man came at him again.
Drake twisted aside, narrowly avoiding the strike, but the effort threw him off balance.
He swayed, and the follow-up caught him square on the jaw.
The crowd roared.
She could not bear to watch what would come next.
She could not look away.
Drake reeled, fighting to stay upright. He shook his head once, as if he might clear the ringing from it by force of will alone, and lifted his guard again.
His opponent advanced with ruthlessness.
A fist slammed into Drake’s side. Another followed directly after.
She didn’t miss his wince, his lips curving into a curse.
Still, he did not go down.
She allowed herself a small breath.
Drake finally lashed out a ferocious strike that clipped the other man’s shoulder, and for one wild heartbeat, hope flared in her chest. This was what he was.
This, the refusal to lose even when diminished and clearly acting on nothing but pure stubbornness, this was the truest thing about Drake Fury.
His opponent laughed and answered with a blow that sent Drake staggering again, dropping to his knees.
Violet swallowed a gasp as the roar around them swelled, hungry now, expectant.
They sensed the end approaching. Her nails bit into the railing.
Drake’s head hung, shoulders heaving. For a terrible moment, he did not move at all.
Get up!
You are the undefeatable fist. The Brighton Brute!
She willed the command into him across the distance, through the crowd, through the noise and the terrible helplessness of not being able to do anything for him.
Vaguely, she heard someone clear a throat from behind them, calling to Percival, but Violet couldn’t tear her gaze from Drake, but that voice. . . Why did that sound so much like . . . She cast a quick glance over her shoulder.
Rook? Rook!
“What do you want?” Percival snapped, irritation clipping his voice.
Rook’s gaze found hers directly. “I’m here for the lady.”
Her eyes flew wide. How beautifully crazy was this man?
Percival turned, frowning. “Did Barrowmere send you?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then what—”
A knife appeared in his hand, and Rook sliced the blade at the leg of the guard stationed at the door. “Run, my lady!”
Violet didn’t need to be told twice. She turned, drove her knee in Percival’s nether regions with every ounce of feeling she had accumulated since he struck Drake, and dashed off as quick as her legs allowed in her skirts.
*
A commotion had broken out above on the spitfire’s platform, but Drake didn’t dare glance in her direction.
He couldn’t afford to get distracted here and now.
He couldn’t let his fight last much longer either.
He pushed himself onto his feet again with effort.
The cry of his name on Violet’s lips had given him strength to fuel him for this next part.
Focus. Only this. Only now.
One look would ruin him.