by Bec McMaster
"What's wrong?" Working her way down, Lark pressed a kiss to his abdomen, her lips brushing against his nightshirt. "A little on edge, are we?"
The press of his erection was vivid beneath the thin linen, straining slightly to the left of his navel. Every inch of it was visible, from the darker, rounded head of it to the veins in his shaft. It wasn't as though she hadn't seen a man's cock before, but never in this much detail.
She started working his nightshirt up, glancing at Charlie to make sure he was watching her as she lowered her face and deliberately licked along his shaft, the fabric shirring beneath her tongue. A streak of color darkened where her saliva wet the linen, clinging lavishly to every inch of him.
He sucked in an aching breath, fingers clenching in the sheets. "Fuck."
Oh, this she liked. Having her cocky, ever-so-charming nemesis writhing helplessly beneath her made all her earlier begging worth it. Pinning his nightshirt down, she licked him through it again, her tongue learning the length of him, from the pulsing veins winding up his cock, to the tiny, arrow-shaped groove beneath the very head of him.
Charlie's hands threaded through her unbound hair, caressing her scalp. A grunt escaped him, his fingers curling tighter.
"Lark, no.... I'm going to—" He suddenly flexed, capturing his erection in his hand and preventing her from licking him again. A low moan escaped him, and then he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Damn it."
Lark hovered over him. There was a sticky mess beneath his hand, all wadded up in his nightshirt. "Did you just—"
"Yes."
Lark sat upright. He looked so horrified with himself, his cheeks burning red as he covered his eyes. She couldn't help laughing.
"Shut up," he growled. "It's been hours, trying to ignore the sensation of having you pressed up against me. And then touching you.... And I never thought you'd actually put your mouth on me." He peeked through his fingers. "I can't believe you were licking me."
Lark leaned down and grinned unrepentantly in his face. "I like having the upper hand."
"You would. Next time, I'm not going to be as eager to spend."
He dragged her down for another, gentler kiss.
"Knock, knock," someone called through the door, before rapping sharply.
Lark squeaked and dove off Charlie, almost flipping right off the edge of the bed. He cursed under his breath, trying to tug his nightshirt down to cover the flaccid curve of what was left of his erection.
"Just a friendly reminder we were s'posed to be meetin' an 'our ago," Blade called. "Everybody's waitin' in the sittin' room." Blade paused. "Maybe you'd best rap on Lark's door when you're dressed. Seems she's dead to the world, 'cause she ain't answerin' her door either."
"Will do," Charlie called, his head slumping back onto the pillow as he groaned. "Just go away and let me get dressed and we'll—I'll be with you in ten minutes."
"If you ain't there in ten, I'll come 'aul you out o' bed meself."
Footsteps echoed on the floor outside as Blade walked away.
"Do you think he knows?" Her cheeks were hot enough to cook an egg.
Charlie dug his thumbs up under his eyebrows and groaned. "He knows."
"Oh, my God."
How the hell was she going to look Blade in the eye?
"Don't know what you're worried about," Charlie groused, tossing the covers back and climbing to his feet. "I'm the one he'll thrash."
"Think you're up to a little bit of a challenge?" Gemma asked, shaking pounce from her letter back into its little pot.
Charlie clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Lark. "Define 'little.'"
"Balfour is hosting a hunt today, followed by dinner and a ball. I want you to break into his wife's study while he's on the hunt. I'm going to distract Dido."
"What are we stealing?"
"Nothing." Gemma's smile was sleek. "Tatiana Feodorevna is the source of Balfour's power. She's also a fierce proponent of seeing her dearest friend, Elisabeta Grigoriev, announced as the Tsarina's heir."
"Sergey's wife," Lark murmured.
"Indeed." Gemma swiftly folded the letter and slipped it inside an envelope. She sealed it with wax and pressed the counterfeit Feodorevna seal that Luther had created into it. "I want you to slip this into Tatiana's post, if you can. It's addressed to Elisabeta's sister, Alexandrina, and it is signed by Balfour."
Realization dawned. "That's why you wanted the letter Balfour had written. You wanted a copy of his signature."
"And his writing style." Gemma carefully crinkled the edges of the envelope, so it would show a little use. "Tatiana is a ruthless young woman who wants nothing to stand in her friend's path to the throne. If Balfour thinks she's not watching his every move, then he's very much mistaken."
"And if Tatiana thinks her husband is plotting with Alexandrina, then she might be amenable to disrupting his affairs."
"Distraction is our ally," Lark mused.
"So far Balfour's been making all the moves. I'm going to start playing back."
"Consider it done," Charlie said, tucking the letter inside his coat.
"Have you considered my request?" Balfour asked, his breath steaming in the crisp autumn air as they strolled along the ruler-straight canal that led out to sea.
Obsidian clasped his hands behind him to fight the itch to choke the bastard out. "I have."
"And?"
They both glanced at the party of gentlemen ahead of them. Sergey Grigoriev hadn't yet arrived—a direct snub to Balfour and his wife—but rumor had it he intended to make an appearance that night.
"You leave me with little option. I want to know who I am. And I know you, Balfour. If I don't do as you ask, you'll back me into a corner."
"Dido's going to be ever so disappointed." Balfour's lips quirked as he turned and brushed lint off Obsidian's shoulder. "She was hoping she'd get to shed some blood—"
Obsidian captured his wrist. "Don't touch me."
Balfour's dark eyes gleamed as he withdrew his hand. "As you wish. Just make sure it looks like an accident. I don't want this leading back to me, and I don't want anyone crying 'murder.'"
He walked away, seemingly careless of the fact he had an assassin at his back.
Obsidian straightened his collar, touching the small communicator there. "Did you get all that?"
"Yes," Gemma replied.
"Make sure nobody goes anywhere alone. Dido won't take this well. She wants to kill one of us, and I'm not certain how tight the leash she wears is."
"Maybe I can choke her with it," Gemma murmured.
Chapter 17
Another ball.
Another opportunity to meddle in Balfour's affairs. It wouldn't gain them Malloryn's whereabouts, but it might take his attention off them for the moment. They wanted him watching this hand, and not the other....
Herbert and Blade were currently traversing the city street by street, trying to track Malloryn's location implant. Every Rogue had one of the tiny implants located in the base of their hairline, and the tracking device would ping if they got within a mile of it. If his kidnappers hadn't noticed it, that was.
Byrnes and Ingrid were off leading their wet nurses—as Byrnes put it—on a merry chase. They'd started mapping the radius of the search area from which they could presumably still see smoke from Balfour's palace.
And Charlie was currently slipping into Tatiana's study to plant Gemma's incriminating letter.
Until they had an idea of where Malloryn was, Balfour was their best lead, though Lark wished she could have gone with him.
"Sometimes I want to wipe that smirk off his face," Gemma muttered at Lark's side, half her pretty face hidden by a mask made of raven feathers and gold lace.
Balfour had decreed it a masquerade ball, almost as if he wanted them to take advantage of the confusion.
He smiled down at the three of them from where he stood at the balcony. Balfour ignored Gemma and Lark to a large degree as they accepted champagne from a footman. All hi
s attention was locked upon Obsidian, as if he couldn't wait to discover whether the former assassin had taken his bait.
"And here is our ignorant target," Gemma mused into her champagne. "Finally."
Sergey Grigoriev appeared at the top of the stairs, clad in a strict black military coat with a golden tassel on one shoulder and medallions pinned to his chest. There it was again, the cold, dark spiraling pit threatening to suck her under. Lark had prepared herself for this moment as best she could, but in an instant she could hear her mother screaming again, begging for the life of her children.
He'd never served a day in his life, but he held himself as proudly as if he'd singlehandedly fought off a hundred enemy soldiers. Tall and bearded, he surveyed the ballroom through a gold metallic mask. Apparently he'd snubbed Balfour's earlier events, hosting a party of his own. Tension existed between the two former allies.
Nothing about him had changed. Perhaps his beard was a touch thicker, his body a little more heavy-set, but she couldn't help seeing her memories of him superimposed over the reality.
Only this time, there was no blood on his hands.
Gemma's voice pulled her out of the fugue. "Pompous, arrogant prat, isn't he? I think I might introduce myself. I'm going to enjoy pulling the wool over his eyes."
I'm going to enjoy cutting his heart out of his chest.
Lark's fingers brushed against the knives strapped to her thighs, and she forced herself to swallow the sudden choking rage. Later.
Maybe.
She had to focus on the task ahead, not on a revenge scheme that might hurt the others, but for the first time tonight, she was grateful for the deception of the mask covering half her face.
Sergey shouldn't recognize her, but there was no point in risking it.
And she could at least use the mask to shield the hatred in her eyes.
"Need some assistance?" Obsidian asked Gemma.
"It's probably best if you're not seen with the man you intend to assassinate."
As Gemma moved away, adding an extra little swish to her stride, Obsidian quirked his brow. On anyone else, the gesture would have been a significant tell, but Obsidian's general expression was like a vault. You could never truly tell what he was thinking or feeling, and it made Lark a little uncomfortable.
"She doesn't approve of your intentions?" she guessed.
"She doesn't approve of playing to Balfour's plans. She wholeheartedly agrees with killing our precious prince, however."
"There's nothing to say you cannot do both. Kill the prince and ruin Balfour's plans."
For once they both seemed to be in perfect accord.
He even almost smiled. "I would enjoy that. Very much."
Lark watched as Gemma swept into a curtsy that caught Sergey's attention.
Or the low-cut curve of her gown gained all the focus, if one was being honest.
Beside her, a snapping sound echoed and she realized Obsidian had cracked the stem of his champagne flute. The almost-smile was gone and dark blood dripped from his palm.
"Excuse me," Obsidian said, his eyes dark with a sudden heat. "I should see to this."
Then he was gone and Lark realized maybe he wasn't as impenetrable as he seemed.
Music swept around her, but all she could see was Sergey, helping Gemma to rise from her curtsy. A lady nearby cried out in chagrin, but it became a scream in her ears.
Suddenly Lark was no longer in the ballroom.
She was shivering on the balcony outside her mother's bedchamber as Sergey lifted the wolf's head mask from his face and reached out to tilt her mother's chin up, blood dripping from the knife in his hand.
"You!" Her mother strained at the hold of the two men restraining her. "You treacherous snake!"
"Where is Irina?"
"You're a monster," her mama spat, tears staining her cheeks as she struggled. "I would never tell you, even if I knew!"
"If I have to hunt the girl down, it will try my patience, Natasha. I could be merciful. I could make it swift, as this could be."
Her mama spat in his face, and Sergey's mouth pruned up as he wiped the spittle free. "You will regret that," he said, and gestured to the guards. "Hold her face."
Lark forced herself out of the memories, her hands trembling. At the top of the stairs, Sergey laughed at something Gemma had said, and Lark's vision dipped into shades of gray as the predator within her slithered through her veins.
She needed to get out of here.
But when she turned, she slammed into a firm chest. Hands caught her by the elbows, effectively trapping her.
"Why hello there," murmured the handsome stranger who'd assaulted her in the palace. A plain black leather mask covered his eyes, but there was no mistaking his voice. "Fancy seeing you here."
Lark's heart beat madly in her chest.
She looked for Charlie, wishing he was back already, but there was not a single Rogue in sight.
"Let's keep it civil, shall we?" Nikolai offered her his gloved hand. "May I have this dance?"
"I'm a terrible dancer. I step on feet all the time."
"That's quite all right, my dear." His voice lowered. "Dance with me. I have questions and you will not like it if I'm forced to ask them elsewhere."
They were in a crowded ballroom where dozens of people watched and whispered behind their fans.
What was the harm?
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Lark replied, accepting his hand.
He settled her in his arms. "Oh, I'd never say that."
It soon became apparent she would not have to start counting the steps in her head. Honoria had done her best, but Lark danced like a woman with a knife in her hand. He led very well, one hand curled around hers and the other cupping her waist firmly.
"You're not limping anymore," she said. "And you seem to have forgone your cane. Or was that just an act?"
A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I prefer a brace for events such as this."
"So if I kick your knee out from under you, you'll fall on your face?"
His grip on her tightened. "If you tried to do such a foolish thing, I'd slit your throat right here and now."
"Do you think Sergey would approve?"
If this Nikolai belonged to the Chernyye Volki, then he was firmly under Sergey's thumb. They'd served Sergey all those years ago, and he'd been seen in the ruined palace only days ago. Sergey had to be involved with them still.
Which meant this couldn't be her Kolya.
There was no way her brother would betray his family like this, was there?
A little whisper of doubt slid through her. What if he didn't know?
Her father and older brothers had been ambushed on the way home from the opera, at the same time Sergey attacked the palace.
But if he lived, Nikolai would have been the new Prince of Tsaritsyn, not Sergey.
"The prince wouldn't particularly care."
"That's right," she continued, trying to push him a little. "There's nothing Sergey enjoys more than seeing blood slicked across the marble tiles. But attacking a foreign envoy might earn you more than just a slap on the wrist."
Nikolai's gaze sharpened upon her. "Ah, yes. You're with the English delegation."
"Surprised?"
"Curious." He whirled her between a pair of other dancers. "I've been asking about you. Lark Rathinger. An interesting name. You're English, but you speak Russian perfectly."
"What can I say? I'm talented."
"An excellent actress."
"You called me that before. Do you think there's a plot against you?"
"There's always a plot."
"Then know this." She tipped her chin up. "I was as shocked to see you as you were to see me. I wasn't expecting anyone to be there—or, I was hoping to find someone else, more to the point. I have no interest in you."
"Too bad. You've earned mine, little bird. You should be very careful in showing your face in front of Sergey," he mused. "He gets a little nervous when someone who looks like
a Grigoriev shows up."
"Most of the Grigorievs were blond." Only she, Nikolai and their father had been dark of hair and feature. "And that's an interesting speculation from someone who wears a dead man's face. What does he make of you?"
"He knows where my loyalties lie."
"With yourself," she guessed.
Thick dark lashes fluttered through the mask. The faintest of smiles touched his lips. "You're certainly arrogant enough to be a Grigoriev, though that could have been trained into you, of course."
"I'm not a Grigoriev."
"No?" He swept her beneath his arm. "Of course not. That would be a dangerous proposition in this world."
"Yes, it would. And speaking of Grigorievs, what may I call you?"
"I am Nikolai Koschei."
An old Russian fairy tale in which Koschei separated his soul from his body and hid it, so he could avoid death. "The Deathless."
"Indeed."
"I think I have another name for you." She swallowed. Hard. "Nikolai Konstantinovich Grigoriev."
Those dark eyes sharpened upon her. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"Only on Tuesdays."
A pair of other dancers swept too close to them, forcing her to concentrate on her feet.
"Nikolai Grigoriev died along with the rest of his family," he told her, his face next to hers so no one would hear it. "And he would like to keep it that way."
It was as direct a confirmation she was going to get.
Lark drew back, staring into his eyes breathlessly.
Did she dare...?
"If Nikolai Grigoriev lived," she whispered, "then perhaps he wasn't the only one."
This time it was his turn to stare.
"There are rumors the eldest brother survived," she murmured, as they swayed. She'd told herself a thousand times Obsidian wasn't her eldest brother, but a little hint of doubt remained. She needed to know what had happened that night.
"Dmitri." His grip on her tightened. "He wouldn't want to have."
"What do you mean?"
"Who do you think was responsible for the death of Konstantin Grigoriev?" Then he added. "And Nikolai?"