Chapter 10
AUGUST
The walk back had been silent—not because of any shared discomfort, but because I was too busy cataloguing her tells to waste time on conversation. That stumble on the street. The way her eyes had gone distant. The calculated lie that followed.
She'd seen something. And she thought I hadn't noticed.
I'd catalogued every micro-expression: recognition, shock, concentration. Then the calculated decision to deceive me, smoothing her features into false confusion. She was good—better than most prisoners I'd interrogated. But I'd been trained to read deception since I was twelve years old.
The question wasn't whether she'd lied. It was what she'd seen that scared her enough to hide it from me.
Back at the house, I gave her a cursory tour—drawing room, dining room, morning room—watching her absorb every detail with that historian's focus. She asked occasional questions about architecture and household management, playing the role of curious cousin perfectly.
Now we stood in my study, the one room I hadn't intended to show her.
But Adeline had sent word she'd return this afternoon for Lily's first proper lesson, and the study offered privacy that the drawing room didn't. So here we were, the pocket doors rolled shut behind us, afternoon light slanting through the tall windows and painting everything in shades of amber.
The room was unmistakably mine. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with volumes on history and law and magical theory.
My desk dominated one corner—meticulously organized, every paper in its place.
A pair of leather chairs flanked the fireplace, where embers still glowed from this morning's fire.
Maps covered one wall, marked with pins indicating Weaver activity across England.
I watched her take it all in, noting how her gaze lingered on the maps. On the details. Still that historian's mind—or was it a weaver mind—cataloguing everything.
And still hiding whatever she'd seen on that street.
“Impressive collection,” she said, moving to the bookshelves.
“My one indulgence.” I moved to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy. “Most hunters don't bother with books beyond tactical manuals.”
I offered her a glass, and she took it cautiously. Good. Still wary, but not closed off entirely.
“You have a first edition Gibbon,” she said, her fingers trailing along the spines with genuine reverence. “And—is that Johnson's Dictionary? The 1755 edition?”
“You know your books.”
“I'm a historian. Books are my love language.” She glanced at me over her shoulder, something softening in her expression. “Though I have to admit, I didn't expect a hunter to be quite so well-read.”
“What did you expect? A brute with a blade and no thoughts beyond the next kill?”
“Maybe.” She turned back to the shelves. “But you have Locke. And Hume. And—” She pulled out a slim volume. “Poetry?”
“Henley. My mother's favorite.”
“'I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’” She looked at me with understanding.
“You know Henley.”
“I studied poetry before I switched to history.” She returned the book carefully to its place. “Your mother had good taste.”
“She did.” The words came out rougher than intended.
And there it was—that opening. The moment where grief could be used to build trust.
I let the silence stretch, let her see the real pain in my expression. It wasn't difficult. Thinking about my mother always hurt, regardless of the tactical value.
“I'm sorry,” Lily said quietly, turning the poetry book over in her hands. “About your mother. I know what it's like to lose family.”
Something in her voice made me look at her more carefully. “You do?”
“My parents died when I was eight. An accident.” She said it matter-of-factly, but her knuckles were white on the book. “And my little sister. Maya. She was six.”
The words hit harder than I expected. I'd been prepared to probe about the stumble on the street, to gently extract information while offering sympathy as a tool. But this—
“All at once?” The question came out rougher than intended.
“One night. Rain-slicked road, a car—” She stopped, seeming to catch herself. “It’s kind of like a carriage. Another person lost control. I was in the carriage too. I was the only one who survived.”
Christ.
I knew what it meant to lose a mother suddenly, violently. One moment she'd been alive, the next simply. . . gone. Unmade by the magic she'd trusted. But I'd only lost her. Lily had lost everyone. Had survived when her entire family hadn't.
Despite every tactical instinct, despite knowing I should catalogue this vulnerability as leverage, the training dropped away. Something unwelcome—sympathy—cut through.
“I'm sorry,” I said. It was true and I hated that it was. “That's—no child should carry that.”
“No.” She took a shaky breath. “But we do anyway. We learn to live with it. Find purpose in the grief, like you said.”
“Is that why you researched the disappeared people?” The question was gentle now, genuinely curious rather than interrogative. “Because you understood what it meant to lose someone who’s now gone?”
“Maybe.” She moved to the maps, tracing the pins. “Or maybe I just needed to prove they existed.”
“They existed,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean they should have.”
She turned sharply. “That’s a convenient philosophy for a killer.”
“And a necessary one for a survivor.”
We stood in the afternoon light, opponents caught in a temporary ceasefire. The air between us was charged with awareness. She’d challenged me without flinching, and I respected that more than I wanted to admit.
She should hate me. I should see her as a threat. And I did. But beneath the anger, there was curiosity—an unwilling fascination I didn’t have the discipline to kill.
I forced a step back, rebuilding the wall she kept finding cracks in. Whatever she was hiding on that street still mattered more than whatever I thought I saw in her eyes. Sympathy wasn’t trust. And trust could get us both killed.
“Miss Whitmore—”
She studied me for a beat, then added, “When we're alone, you could call me Lily.”
Granting her permission was oddly intimate. But I did it without thinking. “August,” I answered.
“When we're alone.”
“August.” She tested it, and I liked the way it sounded in her voice—less formal, more personal.
A sharp knock interrupted us.
We both jumped. I quickly put distance between us, trying to collect myself.
“Yes?”
Mrs. Hartley opened the pocket doors, her expression apologetic. “I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but Miss Sterling has arrived. She's waiting in the drawing room and seems rather. . . insistent on seeing you.”
Damn.
I'd meant to handle Constance before now. Before Lily became a complication that required explanation. But the walk had taken longer than expected.
“Constance?” Lily's eyebrow arched. “The woman you're ending things with?”
“The timing is unfortunate,” I said tightly.
“Or perfect.” She stood, smoothing her skirts. “I should meet her anyway, shouldn't I? If I'm meant to be living here. Better to establish my presence now than have her discover me later.”
She wasn't wrong. But every instinct I possessed screamed this was a terrible idea.
“Constance doesn't know about you yet,” I said carefully. “And she's. . . she has strong opinions about what she considers hers.”
“Possessive, then.”
“Territorial,” I corrected, though it amounted to the same thing. “She won't take kindly to another woman living in my house, regardless of the explanation.”
“Then I suppose we'll just have to be very proper.” Lily's smile was all teeth. “Unless you'd prefer I hide in the study like a shameful secret?”
“That's not—”
“Then introduce me.” She moved toward the door, that determined stride that Adeline wanted to correct. “Let's see how your almost-former arrangement handles meeting your best friend's cousin.”
This was going to be a disaster.
I followed her out of the study, down the hallway toward the drawing room where Constance waited. Lily walked ahead of me, spine straight, shoulders back—every inch the proper lady except for the defiant tilt of her chin and the slightly too-quick pace.
At the drawing room entrance, I caught her elbow. She turned, eyebrow raised in question.
“Try not to antagonize her,” I said quietly.
“I don't antagonize people.” Her smile turned wicked. “I just ask inconvenient questions. a difference.”
“Lily—”
“Relax, August. I'll be perfectly civil.” She patted my hand where it rested on her elbow, and the casual touch sent heat up my arm. “Assuming she gives me reason to be.”
The echo of Adeline's words from this morning would have made me smile under different circumstances. Instead, I just sighed and pushed open the drawing room doors.
Constance Sterling stood by the window, perfectly positioned to catch the afternoon light.
She'd dressed for effect—a dress in pale pink that complemented her dark hair and fair complexion.
Everything about her was calculated to project refinement and breeding.
Everything I'd once found reassuring and now found. . . tiresome.
She turned as we entered, her expression brightening. “August, finally. I was beginning to think Mrs. Hartley had misplaced you.”
Then her gaze landed on Lily, and the brightness cooled to assessment.
“Constance.” I moved forward, acutely aware of Lily at my side. “This is Miss Lily Whitmore. She’s—”
“The cousin,” Constance finished, her tone suggesting she'd already extracted this information from Mrs. Hartley. “How unexpected. I wasn't aware August was harboring relatives.”
“It was rather sudden,” Lily said, her accent carefully neutral—not quite Yorkshire, but provincial enough to be convincing. “My cousin Adeline's home is being renovated, and Mr. Hawthorne was kind enough to offer us accommodation.”
“How charitable.” Constance's smile didn't reach her eyes. “And where exactly are you from, Miss Whitmore? Your accent is rather. . . difficult to place.”