Ophelia cleared her throat. “I said . . . ahem . . .”
“I heard you,” she mumbled, reluctantly facing the pair.
“It’s just simply that if I or Gertie”—she gestured to their eldest sister—“or Broderick or Reggie—”
“Be done with your point,” she gritted out.
Her sister wrinkled her nose. “Very well . . . if a Black was hovering over one of our babes—”
“We don’t have any babes,” she muttered under her breath.
“Then we would have responded in a like way.”
Damn Ophelia for being right. Damn her for being logical.
Cleopatra stared unblinkingly at the window. Blast . . . She was always the logical one. It had been that way since they’d lived on the streets. She was the one who’d not faltered in the face of Diggory’s evil, but instead sorted through ways in which they could survive it—and thrive. So, what was it that had so upended her? Turned her into one of those easily hurt misses who’d storm from Black’s residence and slink off, like a pickpocket in the night.
It is him . . . bloody Adair Thorne, with his overly familiar hands and total lack of reverence for Cleopatra Killoran for simply being a Killoran. When all the Dials respected her because of her connection to Broderick, Adair despised her for it and warily waited for her to make a dangerous move. It was, however, as Ophelia had said . . . precisely how Adair Thorne should behave. It was how Cleopatra or Gertrude or Ophelia or Broderick or Stephen would be. So why did his damned ill opinion matter so much?
Unnerved, she tugged back the curtain and looked out.
She stiffened when a hand fell to her shoulder. Dropping the velvet fabric, Cleopatra glanced back.
“I’ll go,” Gertrude said quietly. She spoke over Cleopatra’s protestations. “It should have always been me.”
Ophelia and Cleopatra spoke as one.
“Do not be foolish.”
“You are not going,” Cleopatra said tightly, shrugging free of Gertrude’s touch. She’d spent a lifetime protecting her eldest sister, and she’d not abandon that responsibility now. She silently cursed her rashness that had sent her here.
Her sister gave her a sad smile. “Because you believe I cannot make a match with a fancy lord.”
Cleopatra frowned. “Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “It doesn’t matter that you are blind.”
“Fine, then. Because you believe me weak.”
Cleopatra hesitated—too long. A flash of hurt sparked in the older woman’s eyes, and Cleopatra unleashed a stream of curses. She’d bungled all of this. “Do not make this into anything more than it is,” she snapped, angry at herself for altogether different reasons—for hurting her sister. “This isn’t about you, in any way. This is about me . . .” She faltered.
“Looking after others,” Ophelia somberly interrupted. “As you always did and as you always do.” Her sister moved into position alongside Gertrude, and they formed a formidable pair, flanking one another’s side. “This was never a responsibility you should have undertaken.” She steeled her jaw. “It was never a demand Broderick should have put to you.” She passed a hard glance around their small group. “It was never something he should have put to any of us.”
When had her sisters become this resolute? It was uncharacteristic for her sisters to join forces and question decisions and judgments Cleopatra had reached for their clan. As such, she sought to navigate the unfamiliar terrain. “What are you saying?” she demanded gruffly, hating the defensive edge there.
“We’re saying that one of us should go,” Gertrude said bluntly, not dancing around what she meant, as she so often did.
Ophelia was already shaking her head. “Nay. We’re saying one of us is going,” she amended, and Cleopatra’s sisters exchanged a look and nod of solidarity. Ophelia sucked in a breath. “It will be me. I will do it.”
Her?
“You?” Gertrude echoed Cleopatra’s unspoken utterance.
“Do you doubt that I’m capable?” she shot back, fire dancing in her eyes.
“Never that,” Cleopatra said quietly.
And yet, over the years, Ophelia had made little attempt to conceal her loathing for the nobility. Her offer spoke to the ultimate sacrifice.
Cleopatra dug her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. What in blazes had she done? One of them would go and live under Black’s roof, but beyond that . . . make a match with a nob and forever be crushed by that lord’s spirit? Over her dead and bloodied body. “No,” she said tersely. Putting distance between her and her sisters, Cleopatra marched past them. They’d already gained too much of a foothold in the discussion, and she needed to change the proverbial landscape in some way. “I’ll return and . . .” She forced herself to say the hated words. “. . . marry one of them.”
“And live forever amid Polite Society?”
Did Gertrude sense Cleopatra’s weakness in that instance? If so, she’d far greater insight and instinct than Cleopatra had ever credited.
“It is not a challenge,” Ophelia said gently.
Gertrude flared her eyes into wide circles. She shook her head, befuddled. “No. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t intend it as . . .”
Cleopatra held her hand up, quelling the stammering explanation. And that precisely there was why Gertrude could never go. For the flashes of strength she sometimes showed, ultimately, she doubted herself. A fancy toff would crush her spirit the moment Gertrude failed to fall in line with his plans for her.
Ophelia had opened her mouth to speak when a knock sounded at the doorway.
Broderick. He’d of course have discovered her arrival already. Cleopatra might be stealthier than every thief in London, but ultimately her brother always had people reporting back. Who had it been this time?
Another sharp rap struck the wood panel. Her two sisters looked to her.
Bringing her shoulders back, Cleopatra stalked across the room and drew the door open.
Broderick entered, his expression veiled, saying nothing.
Wordlessly, Gertrude and Ophelia filed past him. As soon as they’d gone, he turned the lock and leaned against the panel. “Did they hurt you?” he asked suddenly, unexpectedly. The frosty edge to that question belied his casual repose.
She furrowed her brow.
“Black or his brothers or his men, their wives, or so much as a dog inside their residence?” he put to her on a steely whisper.
His tone promised death, with questions coming later should she answer in the affirmative.
“You know a Black could never hurt me.” And yet, if that were, in fact, true, why did she stand before Broderick even now? Why had she fled? Because your honor was called into question. Nay, it was more than that. She’d revealed her greatest weakness to Adair Thorne.
“What do you want to do, Cleopatra?” he asked.
I want to stay here. I want to stay here where I have a place and a purpose . . . one that moved beyond the match her brother would have her make.
And then the truth slammed into her.
She had fled out of cowardice.
She’d spent but a handful of days as an outsider, away from her family, and had been on the cusp of being presented to Polite Society. Since she was at last being honest with herself, she accepted the truth: any slight, perceived or otherwise, she would have made into something more—just so she could have returned . . . here. For in the end, the fruition of Broderick’s goals entailed not only Cleopatra humbling herself before a world of people whom she’d spent her life hating, but worse, severing Cleopatra from this life—the only life she’d known. She caught the inside of her cheek hard. I am leaving. I am leaving, and avoiding, delaying, or running from my entrance before Society would change nothing. If she intended to make this sacrifice for Ophelia and Gertrude, then there was no other suitable end except her marrying. “Return,” she said softly. “I want to return.” She flexed her jaw. “I don’t want a Black . . .”—Thorne’s suspicion-laden eyes flashed to mind�
�“questioning my trustworthiness.”
Her brother snorted and pushed away from the door. “Trustworthiness is earned . . . as is respect.”
Cleopatra scrunched her brow up.
“A clever girl told me that once.” He followed that with a wink.
Yes, when he was new to the gang, she had hurled those words at him like a curse. To her, Broderick had been just another street boy who’d garnered Diggory’s respect and been afforded power because of his gender, and Cleopatra had hated him on sight. Only to be proven so wholly wrong where he was concerned.
You’ll not touch her, Diggory. Not her, nor her sisters. Not if you want your books kept and your letters written and missives read. Are we clear . . . ?
From the moment he’d challenged Diggory and asserted his role in their underworld kingdom, Broderick had ensured Cleopatra and her sisters something she’d desperately striven for and failed to find—safety. And even as proud as she was, she had never resented him for so effortlessly conquering Diggory. Rather, she’d loved him and called him brother from then on.
“Black and Thorne are in my offices,” he said somberly.
She went still. So that is how he’d discovered her presence here. “Oh?” she asked with feigned casualness. They’d followed her here? To what end? Why should they care whether she’d left? Nay, they should only be happy to have her gone, and be done with all the Killorans.
Her brother propped his hip on her vanity. “They mentioned you’d saved Black’s babe from a drunken nursemaid.” Pride filled his voice.
She shifted. “I’d hardly call it saving her. I merely brought it to their attention that she was a drunk.” She’d always been as uncomfortable with praise as she was a compliment. Disquieted, she reached for the ornate Prometheus porcelain clock resting on the desk in front of her.
“Thorne asked to speak with you.”
The Meissen timepiece slipped from her fingers, and she hurried to catch it. Given that Black was master of his household and the one who’d reached the agreement with Broderick, he should be the one wishing to speak to Cleopatra. What did Adair want with her? Setting it to rights with unsteady fingers, Cleopatra felt her cheeks burning. “Th-Thorne?” she squeaked. The man who’d passed searching hands over her in a possessive manner that left her breathless still wanted to speak to her, but for what purpose?
Feeling her brother’s gaze boring a hole into her person, she forced her gaze up.
Suspicion darkened his eyes. She damned her blushing and stammering and faltering. What hold did Adair Thorne have over her that he could turn her into a cake before her brother of all people?
“Something happen with Thorne?” he asked with his usual practiced casualness.
Her mind stalled. Yes and no, all at the same time, it did. For his hostility toward her bespoke a man who despised her, and yet his tender touch, even through his fury, hinted at a man who felt desire for her. It had been there in the hardening she’d felt thrust against her lower belly.
“Cleopatra?” her brother snapped.
“Nothing,” she lied, her voice steady once more. “Nothing happened outside of him taking my weapons, doubting my word, and finding me in the nursery.” She finished that enumeration as much for her benefit as Broderick’s. It was crazy to hunger after a man who’d treated her with such disdain.
And yet, how many times had women roughed up by Diggory craved his attentions and affections? She cringed. I will not be that woman.
“What will you do?”
There was a double meaning there that asked as much about her plans for Thorne as her intentions to see through the plans for connecting the Killorans to the peerage. I’ll do what I’m supposed to . . . Just as she’d always done with the betterment of her siblings in mind. Cleopatra squared her shoulders. “Where is he?”
“My office.”
She started forward. Most men, regardless of station, would have never granted the use of those private spaces to a sister, wife, or any woman. Broderick, however, had always respected her role inside the family and the club, and for it, he’d forever have her love and fealty. The floorboards groaned behind her, indicating her brother followed along at a slight distance.
Cleopatra smiled wryly. Broderick might trust her judgment and capabilities to hold a meeting with any rival of their establishment, but he’d also not be far should she require intervention—which she rarely did.
Marching past the guards stationed around the private quarters, Cleopatra found her way deeper into the bowels of the establishment, close to the wine cellars and kitchens. One would never expect a proprietor to keep one’s quarters there. She’d heard that Black and his arrogant brothers all held offices above the rental suites, but Broderick, just like Cleopatra, knew one was best posted where one least expected to find you.
While she made the long trek to her brother’s office, she considered her impending meeting. What could Adair Thorne have to say to her? He’d been abundantly clear in their every exchange that he saw her as a vile Killoran. What would he say if he knew she was, in fact, not just another whelp taken in to Diggory’s gang? If he, Black, or any of their kin knew that, they’d have never even agreed to a peace offering in the first place.
She reached the end of the corridor leading to Broderick’s office and slowed her steps. She’d faced countless street fights with girls, lads, and fully grown men. None of those exchanges had ever kicked her heartbeat into this frantic rhythm. It’s because he’s a miserable blighter . . . an enemy of your family’s, and you despise him . . .
And yet, being in Black’s company hadn’t roused this peculiar sensation inside—a sentiment she could neither explain nor understand.
“Cleo?”
Startling, she glanced over her shoulder.
Broderick held a knife toward her.
She blinked slowly, eyeing that gleaming metal as it glinted in the dark corridors.
“Never arrive unarmed to any meeting,” he said, reminding her of another lesson she’d handed a then-naive him. Had there been more suspicion in her brother’s eyes, it would have been easier than the veiled nothingness there. For that hinted at a man who’d seen too much and knew more than she cared him to. Taking that offering in one hand, she continued her march.
Ryker Black stood outside Broderick’s office. One of their tallest, widest, strongest guards, Cullen, stood sentry beside him . . . and yet for all the world, Black may as well have owned the office.
Black briefly lingered his gaze on the blade in her hand, and she braced for his challenge. Instead, he inclined his head in a silent greeting, an apology in his eyes. With her spare hand, Cleopatra pressed the door handle and entered.
Adair stood in the center of the room, his arms folded at his chest. He stared at her through hooded dark lashes.
“A moment, Brewster,” she murmured to her brother’s second-in-command. The guard, lingering in the shadows, quit his spot and let himself out.
Alone with Adair, Cleopatra matched his pose and arched an eyebrow. Broderick’s dagger dangled awkwardly over her arm.
“I’d expect a quality guard would know better than to leave a Killoran alone with one of Black’s kin.” His was a casual observation.
She snorted. “The guards in our establishment know me and my sisters enough to know we don’t need protecting from one of yours.”
The ghost of a smile hovered on Adair’s fine-cut lips, and her stomach did a little somersault. In this, she could almost pretend they were the pair poring over his gaming hell plans. Reality intruded . . . and along with it, his cold orders and heartless suspicions about her. He believes me capable of harming a babe . . .
Cleopatra let her arms fall to her side. “Surely you’ve not come to speak about the differences between our staff and yours?” she asked, unnerved and desperate to regain her footing.
His half grin withered. He reached inside his boot, and she instantly stiffened. But he only withdrew a blade.
Her breath caug
ht. A familiar blade.
Adair held it out.
She took an immediate, lurching step toward it, then caught herself. Even as her fingers, toes, and every muscle strained toward that one valuable possession, she restrained herself. She’d already shown too much. The keen glint in his eyes indicated as much.
“Go on,” he said gruffly.
Still, Cleopatra took slow, careful steps. Carefully training her weapon on him, she inched closer. He’d given her too many reasons to not trust him, when she’d entered the household with enough to never allow him that honor in the first place. Any of the men the Devil’s Den called patrons would have balked at having a weapon pointed at them by Cleopatra Killoran. Adair Thorne was as coolly immobile as the stone statues her brother had recently set outside the hell.
She stopped when they were a handsbreadth apart. They eyed each other a long moment, silently assessing. One arm held protectively at her chest, she opened her other palm.
Instantly, he turned it over. The heat of his callused palm burned her, dangerous in the delicious shivers he sent radiating up her arm. Cleopatra swallowed hard. What accounted for her body’s awareness of him, as a man? He was her enemy. She hated him. And yet, just then it was all jumbled. She quickly folded her fingers around the jewel-encrusted dagger and backed away.
“You think I’d kill you here in your brother’s office, Cleopatra Killoran?” he asked drolly, and yet there was also a tautness to his tone. She’d offended him, and selfishly she gave thanks that he’d misinterpreted the reason for her actions.
“Not his office. Mayhap his hallways.” Her attempt at humor was met with another frown. Cleopatra fought back a sigh. They two were destined to butt heads like angry dogs in the street. Their birthrights and rivalries demanded as much. Knowing that as she did still didn’t erase the peculiar regret that thought stirred. The first to look away, Cleopatra tugged her skirts up and deposited Broderick’s weapon inside her other boot.
She glanced up.
Adair remained with his hooded gaze locked on her leg. Horror mingled with shock, and the bald emotions sent heat slapping at her cheeks. “Oi didn’t mean ta offend your delicate sensibilities,” she snarled. It didn’t matter that he’d been repelled by her too-slender limbs. Like chicken bones made to be snapped, Diggory had often taunted, and threatened.
The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers Book 1) Page 12