by Bec McMaster
"Sorry," he said, sounding completely insincere as he snapped the fan shut and discarded it on the vanity. "Didn't mean to make you blush with all this talk of delicate matters."
"I'm hardly a complete innocent, Charlie." Lark sank into the stuffed armchair, letting her legs dangle over the edge. "I grew up in the rookeries, remember?"
Just what was he up to?
He settled at her feet, one arm slung carelessly over his knee. He trailed his fingertips along her shin, so lightly she could barely feel it. "How could I forget? Remember the time you dared me to steal Miss Jasmine's garters?"
Lark winced. "How was I to know she was currently entertaining?"
"That was an education," he mused. "I spent over an hour trapped in her wardrobe while she explained the fine art of fellatio to her latest client. With a practical demonstration. I used to fantasize about her garters for hours after that."
"I know." Lark rolled her eyes, trying to ignore her hot cheeks. "You practically tripped over your own feet whenever she crossed the street. And is that why you used to lock yourself in your bedroom with one of her silk stockings every night?"
"I was fifteen," he protested. "I'd suddenly become rather... intensely focused on a certain aspect of life. I was curious how it all worked."
"Quite the slow learner then. You locked yourself away every night for months."
He shot her a roguish smile. "Oh no, it only took me an afternoon before I'd worked out the basic mechanics. But you know me." His voice lowered. "I like to be thorough in my practical application."
Lark flushed. True. When Charlie focused on something, it was almost to exclusion of all else.
Like Miss Jasmine.
And then Annie Chambers, the baker's apprentice, the summer he turned sixteen.
And then Dot Milkens, who'd lured him behind the clock tower a month later.
The heat in her cheeks changed from embarrassment to something else. She'd stopped following him through the rookeries by that stage, rather certain she didn't want to know where he was going.
Because Charlie had been handsome and brash and confident. And he wasn't the only one discovering what had changed during that one hateful summer.
"What about you?" he asked, tapping his fingers idly on her boot.
Lark swung her legs over the chair and sat up. "Most people thought I was a boy until I turned sixteen."
You included.
"In their defense," he replied, "you did spend most of your time wearing that god-awful cap and baggy shirt and trousers. You beat up boys twice your size, and never backed down from any challenge. And your hair was shorter than mine when we first met." His gaze narrowed. "It wasn't until your sixteenth birthday that I first saw you in a dress."
"Honoria made me wear it."
"It was horrible," he said.
"You were horrible. You said I looked like a skinny matchstick in a crocheted doily."
Charlie held his hands up helplessly. "I was seventeen. I was an idiot. And my brain kind of melted when you walked out in a dress. It just came out of my mouth."
"I cried for hours that night."
"And then you put a dead rat in my bed," he protested.
"You deserved it."
"Every day for a week."
"You'd hurt my feelings."
Lark pushed away from the armchair, feeling a little restless. It was one thing to reminisce on old times, quite another to relive the horrible feelings they brought with them.
Take that, lust. Embarrassment quenched any sense of desire.
"You also didn't answer my question," Charlie called.
Lark froze. "What question?"
He leaned back against the armchair, thoroughly at ease, smiling mischievously. "I said, what about you? Don't tell me you've never been curious?" He gestured from her head to her toes. "You very clearly turned into a woman. Finally."
Bloody hell. "It's a shame you haven't quite managed the transition to gentleman yet."
"You're stalling...."
Lark crossed her arms over her chest. "A lady never tells."
Charlie's gaze cut to her rather abruptly, and he sat up. "Oh?" His voice lowered. "That's not fair, Lark. You were privy to nearly all my youthful transgressions."
"Not by choice."
Their eyes met, and she realized her tone had been a little hard.
Lark forced it to soften. "You do realize—once I finally outgrew my grotty little boy stage—I was surrounded by several well-meaning uncles who would probably slit the throats of any boy who even looked at me?"
Charlie's gaze flattened as he hauled himself to his feet. "Not such a terrible idea."
She punched him in the arm. "That is so typical. Why should you get to have all the fun just because you're a man? I told Blade that once, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head."
"I can imagine. So... never?" he asked, with a strange light in his eyes.
Maybe I was waiting for you? Lark breathed out slowly. "Never."
"Huh."
Her eyes narrowed. What did that mean?
"You know I'm not experienced. My first kiss only happened a couple of days ago. You were there."
"Thank you for reminding me," he growled, looming over her.
She set her hands on her hips. "And why are you so curious?"
"Maybe I'm trying to work out why you're so resistant to the idea of the two of us." His eyes turned serious. "I wouldn't expect anything you weren't willing to give. I would wait, Lark, if you were nervous or uncertain or...." He shrugged helplessly. "I would wait until you were ready."
Suddenly she couldn't breathe.
He'd hinted that he intended to pursue this, but some small part of her had thought it a mere game to him. Another man had kissed her, arousing his competitive streak and jealousy. It was undeniable that there was an attraction between them, and he'd missed her, of course he had, but where did this end?
Because she couldn't accept anything less than forever.
And she would demand everything, if he ever accepted her terms.
If she could just say those words....
If she could only bring herself to splay her heart so bare.
She tried to explain, truly she did. "I'm not nervous about.... I trust you. I've always trusted you. I know you wouldn't hurt me. Not like that."
"But you think I'll hurt you in some other way?" he asked quietly.
Lark bowed her head.
It was her own fault. Her grief had torn them apart and then he'd left her behind in the rookery without a backwards glance, and it had hurt so much, she didn't know if she had it in her to make herself so vulnerable anymore.
Because she'd loved him more than he'd ever loved her.
"I don't want to lose you," she whispered. "Not again. And if we stay only friends...."
"It wouldn't work. We both know it's more than that."
"For me.... Yes." The words blurted out of her before she could stop them. She clapped both hands over her mouth in horror.
Stillness. Silence.
All she could see was his chest, his fingers curling into a fist at his side.
Oh, God, what had she done?
"For me too," he whispered, tugging her hands from her lips and holding them. "Lark, you're the most important person in my life. I promise that if we took this step, you would never lose me. I would never let you go, to start with. But.... I have concerns too, you know?"
He did?
Charlie reached out and slipped two fingers under her chin, lifting her face to his. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Yes." Her heart started to pound.
"You know everything about me," he murmured, his thumb stroking over the dimple in her chin. "Every secret I've ever kept from others. Every embarrassing moment I've ever had. But sometimes I wonder if I know everything about you."
She went utterly still.
It wasn't a question, but she sensed the sudden shift of intent and it left her wits scrambling.
&
nbsp; "You doubt my intentions," he said. "But you're the one who guards your heart. You're the one who won't let me in. I know you're hiding something." He pressed his fingers to her lips when she started to protest. "Let me finish, please."
Lark swallowed, her lips tingling with his touch.
"You were right," he said simply. "We can't take this step. Not yet. You don't trust me—"
"No! I...." She reached for him, snagging only his sleeve as he stepped back. "It's not.... It's not like that."
"Isn't it?" There was an honest purity to his expression. Charlie never lied. He never hid a damned thing from her, even when she sometimes wanted him to.
"I...." The words choked in her throat.
I can't.
Lifting her hands to her lips, he brushed his mouth over the back of her fingers as she watched helplessly.
"I know. I will wait for you," he promised. "Forever if need be. But if you want this to happen, then you have to let me in. Because I can't have half of you. I can't pretend I'm not aware you're keeping secrets. I would be yours if you would let me, but this decision rests in your hands." He gave a rueful smile. "I suppose you could say you finally won, Lark. You have me on my knees before you. I would never have said this five years ago, but you own my soul. And you always have."
He let her hand go slowly, their fingers straining to stay connected before gravity finally tore them apart.
And then he turned for the door. "We need to meet with the others and work out what to do next. I'll have the carriage prepared. Will you be ready in an hour?"
As if he hadn't just shattered her heart into a million pieces.
"Yes," she whispered.
A sharp rap came at the door.
"What is it?" Obsidian called.
The door opened and one of the footmen slipped inside. "An invitation, sir."
The sealed letter on the tray looked innocuous enough, but the seal embossed into thickened red wax made Obsidian's blood freeze.
He ran his fingernail beneath the seal and glanced at the letter’s contents as the footman departed.
"What is it?" Gemma's eyes narrowed as she clearly read the expression on his face.
Obsidian tapped the letter against his thigh. "It appears I shall not have to bother tracking Balfour down and beating some answers out of him. It's an invitation for me to play chess with him this afternoon, when the other men are hunting."
"Chess?"
His lips drew into a thin line. "Though I suspect the pieces we play with will be the lives of the Company of Rogues, and those of Balfour's allies."
She tugged the letter from his fingers and scanned it. "He wants to meet with you alone. I don't like it."
Obsidian drew her into his arms. "There's no control chip in my head anymore, my love. He's not going to brainwash me again."
"I know," she growled, leaning back into his embrace. "But it's Balfour. It has to be some sort of trap."
Obsidian gave her a thin, unamused smile. "He's not going to kill me. Not in his study, after inviting me to play chess with him. He cannot afford to, not with the eyes of the Crimson Court watching, waiting for a chance to tear him down. No. I'll play his game, Gem. I think... Balfour might reveal something if he thinks I'm alone.
"Besides," he told her. "Charlie and Lark have a listening device planted in the study. You can listen in to every word, and if you hear anything out of the ordinary, I fully expect you to burst in, pistols blazing."
"Don't doubt that I will."
Chapter 14
At precisely four, Obsidian rapped on the door to Balfour's study.
"Come in," Balfour called.
Obsidian entered, scanning the room swiftly.
"No assassins behind the door," Balfour assured him with the faintest of smirks. He wore an elegant red military-style coat with gold frogging and epaulets. It was odd to see him with a neatly groomed beard, when he'd always been clean-shaven.
"I suppose it wouldn't be seemly. All that blood in the carpet," he replied. "Devilishly difficult to explain to the tsarina."
"Ah, but if I had arranged for an assassin, the question is: Would it be your blood, or theirs?"
Obsidian sent him a chilling smile. "Don't be modest, Balfour. There's a strong chance it would be yours."
"Take a seat." The former spymaster pried the top of the decanter free. "Brandy?"
"Only if it's bloody."
"Always," Balfour assured him, but Obsidian didn't take a seat until Balfour did.
They eyed each other across the desk as Obsidian sipped his bloodied brandy. As a dhampir his thirsts were stronger than those of most blue bloods, but he was growing used to the way the Company of Rogues diluted their blood with spirits or wine.
"Do you know why I invited you here?" Balfour asked.
"I presume I have something you want. And you have something I want." Obsidian cocked his left ankle up on his right knee, feigning nonchalance. He wasn't afraid. Not of Balfour directly. The man was an excellent duelist, but Obsidian had been trained as an assassin. They both knew how this would end if Balfour tried to kill him.
Balfour sipped his drink, his dark eyes watchful. "Always so blunt."
"We're not friends, Balfour. There's no point discussing the weather."
"You know, I always liked that about you," Balfour admitted. "Ghost postured too much—I presume he's dead?"
"Yes."
"And Silas?"
Obsidian glanced down into his glass, swirling the blood through his brandy. Silas was the one dhampir he'd thought he could trust—until he finally realized Silas was the one who'd drugged him, then set the fire he'd once blamed on Gemma. Silas had hauled him to safety, blaming "that bitch," and Obsidian had spent years believing the woman he loved tried to kill him.
A betrayal like that could never be forgiven. "I'd assumed he'd make his return to your side like a whipped dog."
"Ah. You didn't kill him."
"Despite the fact he betrayed me? Lied to me? Allowed you and Ghost to use me?" His smile was thin. "No. He was my brother once. That earns him a reprieve. Just this once. If I see him again, it might be a different story."
"Ghost was your brother too."
"No." Once upon a time he'd thought so too, but now he was no longer certain if that had been a suggestion planted in his head by Dr. Richter, the scientist who'd put the control chip in his head, or whether he'd ever truly felt that way. "Why don't you cut to the point? You didn't invite me here to reminisce upon the past."
"Fine. Let us negotiate." Balfour leaned back in his chair. "I have a task I require of you."
He couldn't help a soft laugh escaping him. "You think I'd ever work for you again?"
"As you said, I have something you want...."
The bastard hadn't changed. Balfour pulled strings as naturally as he breathed. "Malloryn."
The smirk came back. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Oh, no, Obsidian. I have something better than that." Balfour leaned forward. "Don't you want to know who you are?"
The words stole the breath from him. The second he’d seen the Grigoriev family tree in the file with his name on it, the thought had been constantly on his mind. He had very little recollection of his past, the memories conditioned out of him by Ghost and Dr. Richter.
When he and the other dhampir escaped Falkirk Asylum, he'd considered them brothers. Family. But the revelation of the way they'd used him had torn that from him. Discovering he might be a Grigoriev gave birth to something new within him. Not hope, perhaps, for he knew the entire family had died years ago, when Sergey became the new Prince of Tsaritsyn.
But a sense of identity he'd been lacking all these years.
Obsidian leveled a dead-eyed stare upon Balfour. "If you think to play this game with me, then I warn you to play it carefully."
"Did you never wonder why I wanted you kept alive all these years? Ghost disobeyed orders when he moved to attack you, and he paid with the cost of his life. You were ne
ver supposed to be harmed—"
"Just manipulated, with every sense of myself stripped from me. And most likely at your orders." Somehow he was on his feet, one hand on the desk as he loomed toward Balfour. "You think I owe you anything? Give me one good reason not to kill you. Because I could." His voice dropped, a silky whisper of death. "I want to."
Balfour didn't even flinch. "How is this for a reason? If I die, then so does your Company of Rogues' precious Malloryn. What would your beloved Gemma say if you cost her the life of the man she idolizes?"
It froze him, and somehow he managed to choke back the anger and rage.
"I have people in place here, keeping an eye on the situation," Balfour continued brazenly. "If any harm befalls me then a servant will light a fire somewhere within the house and pour a certain chemical into it. I'm told the smoke burns a furious red. You cannot miss it. The second Jelena sees that fire, Malloryn dies. Slowly. Painfully."
It would break Gemma.
She blamed herself for the duke's kidnapping, despite the fact that she couldn't have done a damned thing to stop it.
Obsidian straightened, wiping every ounce of emotion from his expression. "Then what do you want of me?"
"I want you to kill Sergey Grigoriev for me. And I need it to look like an accident. In return, I will give you proof of your birth family and where you came from."
Silence.
"You want me to assassinate a prince of the Blood? He's a blue blood, Balfour. How do I cut off his head or remove his heart and make it seem like an accident?"
"You're the expert. I'm sure you'll figure it out."
Damn him.
"I will... consider it."
"You have less than six days," Balfour told him. "I want it done before the Tsarina announces her chosen heir at her ball."
Obsidian pushed to his feet. "I'll give you my answer tomorrow."
By the time Obsidian returned to their rooms, Gemma was pacing the sitting room, the ruffles on her hem swishing about her with every angry step.
She'd have heard everything through the listening device planted beneath Balfour's desk, along with the rest of the Rogues gathered here: Byrnes, Ingrid, Kincaid, Ava, Charlie, and Lark.