by Bec McMaster
"Ssh," Lark whispered. "You shouldn't say that out loud."
She turned to the young Silent woman.
"They didn’t hurt you, Nadezhda?" Lark asked her.
"No," she signed back. "What will he do to me?"
Lark hesitated. "He will not hurt you. I am certain of that."
Though she knew this man not at all, she couldn't believe the boy she'd once known could ever harm a woman. He moved toward her like a shark through the crowd and they parted, silken-clad wolves giving way to the sleek threat of death in their midst.
No more laughter. Not anymore.
"Congratulations," she told Nikolai, handing him the leash. "You're now the proud owner of Nadezhda. And she is not to be touched."
"I have no intention of touching her." He stared at the leash in his hand as if it was a snake. There was blood all over the slick leather coat he wore, but not even a single scratch.
He hadn't killed Berensky.
No, that would have been a kindness.
She could still hear the count screaming out the back, and everyone in the crowd gave Nikolai a wide berth. He might have done this as a kindness, but no one watching would ever think it a weakness, and she was fairly certain that was deliberate.
"You owe me some answers," Nikolai said coldly. "I will collect, but not tonight."
"Not tonight."
"Thank you, kind sir," Nadezha signed, bowing at Nikolai's feet.
"Don't thank me," he said, looking horrified by her gratitude. "It was a transaction, nothing else. Get up. We need to get out of here. Chiyoh."
The Japanese woman appeared out of nowhere, a stretch of elegant red silk gown draped across one shoulder. It flowed down her legs and was bound by a black leather corset-style belt. Her silky raven hair was gathered back into a single braid, and she wore what appeared to be a katana at her hip.
"Here. Take... Nadezhda." Nikolai handed over the leash as if it burned him.
"Thank you," Lark said simply. Perhaps she'd been wrong. Perhaps there was some piece of her brother left inside him.
Coldness settled like a shroud over his expression. "Get out of my life. And keep your goddamned gratitude. I didn't do it for you."
Then he stalked through the crowd, leaving both Nadezhda and Chiyoh behind him.
Maybe not.
Chapter 22
"We survived," Charlie said breathlessly as the carriage rocked on its way back to the townhouse. He could scarcely believe it. "I didn't even lose any clothes."
Though it had been close there at one stage.
"What little there is of them," Lark murmured, as if sensing his need to break the ice in the carriage. She screwed the lid back on the flask of blood he'd given her.
He'd been two seconds away from planting Lady Kirinov a facer when Lark came blazing out of nowhere, proclaiming he belonged to her.
She'd saved the day and stopped him from blowing their cover.
And then she'd murdered the hell out of that smirking bitch who'd looked at Charlie like she wanted to eat him alive.
He'd always known she was a lethal little weapon, but it had been all he could do not to kiss her on her scowling mouth when she stared out over the crowd and asked if anyone else wanted to attempt to steal what belonged to her.
"Barely survived." Gemma looked furious. "Luther gave us bad intelligence."
"That's not entirely correct," Obsidian murmured, turning his face away from the window. "Not just bad information, but corrupted information. Balfour must know the identities of one—or more—of Malloryn's agents. He set a trap for us. We cannot trust anything Luther gives us from now on."
"So we're bloody blind, we have no leads on where Malloryn or Ava are, and our window of opportunity is narrowing every bloody day." Gemma tore the collar from her throat and hurled it at the floor. "He's outthinking us, he's outplaying us, and damned if I know what to do about it."
"You did your best, Gem." Obsidian slid his hand into hers and leaned down to kiss her lips.
Charlie glanced at Lark, and found her looking studiously at him too, as if to give them some modicum of privacy. Somehow his fingers found hers on the carriage seat and he laced them together.
"How do I tell Kincaid?" Gemma asked in a small voice. "I promised him I would bring her home. It was the only reason he let us go without him. I told him he was a liability in his current emotional state."
"He will understand," Obsidian murmured. "He knows you love her too."
The carriage hit a bump and began to slow.
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs," Obsidian interrupted. "We deal with facts. Not possibilities. We have to presume both Ava and Malloryn are alive. Balfour likes to play games. He's not going to kill either of them unless he can force us to watch."
Another faint bump as the carriage rolled over something. Charlie twitched the curtains aside as Obsidian continued soothing Gemma.
"What is it?" Lark asked, attuned to him as always, and the others fell silent.
"Is there any reason we just came to a halt in the middle of a bridge?"
Instantly, the remorse slid off Gemma's face and she drew her pistol. He had no idea where she’d managed to hide it beneath that dress. "I hope that some fool thought he'd attempt to impede me further tonight. And I really, really hope it’s Balfour."
She threw the carriage door open and rolled out before anyone could say anything.
"Shit." Obsidian went after her, drawing his own weapon.
Pistol fire started barking.
"Is she insane?" Lark yelled, peeking out the open carriage door.
"Remind me to tell you about the time Gemma nearly cut down half the Coldrush Guards that protect the queen. Trust me. I feel sorry for whoever just attacked the carriage. She's been under a significant amount of stress lately. "
A man appeared in the doorway, yanking at Lark's arm.
Lark grabbed the carriage strap and kicked him fair in the chest. She swung through the door and vanished.
Charlie scrambled out, drawing the pair of cutthroat razors Lark had carried for him. Two figures swept toward him, and he ducked beneath a pistol and flicked his wrist, just so. Blood sprayed through the air in a fine arc, the pistol firing into the air as the first man went down gasping.
A punch slammed into his ribs. Charlie flung an elbow, earning a satisfactory crunch, and danced back to give himself room to fight.
The stranger wore a silver wolf's mask.
"You lot just don't know when to give up," he growled.
He could understand Gemma's frustration. Charlie flicked the razor closed, and followed through with a massive haymaker. His knuckles hit the mask and the thin metal crumpled, the stranger screaming as he hit the ground. Lifting his foot, he stomped down, crushing the bastard's throat.
It felt good to unleash some of his anger.
"Try not to kill them all! We need one of them alive!" Obsidian yelled, and Charlie was about to yell back when he realized Gemma was carving a swathe through at least half a dozen men.
Obsidian wasn't talking to him.
She'd clearly run out of bullets, and was using the pistol as a weapon. Stabbing a man in the eyes with her fingers, she moved on as he went down screaming.
"I want to be Gemma when I grow up." Lark grinned at him, her dark eyes alight with a bloodthirsty gleam.
One Gemma was more than enough. "I like you just the way you are."
Lark kicked a man in the face and flipped backwards, landing in a squat. "Oh, Charlie. You are such a—"
"Don't say it."
She burst into a gale of laughter that swiftly choked off. "Behind you!"
He caught a glimpse of a shadow rushing at him from behind, and then Lark ran at him. Charlie caught her elbow and spun, as Lark drove the heel of her foot into the attacker's face.
It was perfectly choreographed.
The man flipped over the edge of the bridge, vanishing into the murky waters below as Charlie swung Lark down o
nto her feet as smoothly as any waltz.
"One day you're going to let me have all the accolades," he told her. "I always make you look good."
"Well, I would have swung you, but you're such an overgrown lout these days, we'd have ended up in a crumpled heap on the bridge."
"Think we've got them all?" he asked, looking around at the groaning and still bodies on the bridge.
"If we didn't, then Gemma did. Remind me not to get on her bad side."
"You're starting to sound like a Rogue."
The faintest hint of color darkened her cheeks. "Think they'd have me?"
"I don't know. You'd have to pass some fairly stringent interviews. I think you have Ingrid's vote. She loves nothing more than seeing Byrnes get a taste of his own medicine. Ava's a given—once we rescue her—and if you have Ava on your side, then Kincaid's sure to follow. Herbert's already feeding you, and Gemma's starting to warm up to you, though I'm not sure about Obsidian. He's got the best damned poker face I've ever seen. There's just one problem...."
"Malloryn?"
"No. There's this one Rogue remaining, and you've yet to convince him."
"Is this one Rogue wearing the most revealingly diaphanous shirt I've ever seen?" she teased, tugging on the collar.
Charlie looked down. He looked like a male prostitute. No wonder none of their attackers had taken him seriously. "He can get rid of the shirt with a little convincing."
"Oh?" Lark bit her lip. "What if I removed my shirt as well? Would that help him make up his mind?"
"It might." Charlie leaned down toward her. "But if you remove those trousers, then you're practically guaranteed his vote."
"I'd have to think about it," she teased. "It seems I already have the majority vote. What makes you think I need his?"
"Well, his is the most important—"
It happened almost in slow motion.
A hooded figure rolled under the carriage, aiming his pistol at the middle of Lark's back.
Charlie didn't think. Didn't hesitate.
Instead, he grabbed her and rolled her out of the way just as the pistol retorted.
It felt like a hot poker stabbing into his shoulder. Lark screamed, and then they were tumbling over the edge of the bridge, slamming into the water.
The shock of the frigid water stole his breath. Lark tore from his arms, leaving him scrambling to find the surface. His arm wasn't working properly, but the cold, the icy cold, stole some of the heat and pain.
A hand closed in his shirt, wrenching him upwards, and somehow he wrapped his arms around the lithe figure kicking toward the surface. He could see her face in the moonlight that streamed through the water, her hair floating around her like a mermaid’s.
Capturing her face, he kissed her, bubbles streaming from his mouth as he claimed her lips.
And then they broke the surface.
Lark surfaced, hauling Charlie up with a grunt of exertion.
"Charlie!" She tore at his shirt, desperately trying to find the source of the bleeding.
He threatened to go under. "Help. Help. I've been shot...."
"Don't move," she gasped. Grabbing him by the other arm, she slipped beneath his shoulder. "I need to get you ashore. Get a look at—"
"I'm fine." He snagged an arm around her waist and winced. "I'm only jesting. Flesh wound, by the feel of it."
"Fine?"
A smile spread across his face. "You were worried about me."
"Argh!" Lark shoved away from him, her chest heaving.
She couldn't help seeing that moment when he'd slammed into her, his mouth dropping open in shock, and blood spraying in a fine mist over his shoulder. There was a tribal drum trapped behind her ribs, and her stomach felt hollow.
"Kiss me," he said, reaching for her. "No better way to make me feel better."
Lark splashed him in the face as he swam toward her. "Oh, I don't think so. I think you can make your own way to shore. Bastard."
"Charlie?" Gemma appeared at the edge of the bridge, peering down with concern.
"Alive," he yelled. "We'll meet you on the bridge."
Gemma nodded and vanished.
Kicking her way to the edge of the canal, Lark scrambled over the stones like a sleek otter and collapsed on her back. Charlie tried to follow, but his left arm gave out.
"Any chance you could assist me?" he asked. "I seem to have been shot."
And despite the fact she was going to kill him, she turned around to haul him out.
Lark stripped his shirt open, her nostrils flaring when she scented blood. "Through and through. You were lucky."
Blood ran in watery rivulets from the blunt hole in the fleshy part of his shoulder.
Charlie groaned. "I'd have expected a little more sympathy. I just took a bullet for you."
I know. It formed a small, frozen knot deep inside her.
A couple of inches lower and to the right, and maybe she wouldn't be holding him in her arms right now. It was easy for Charlie. Despite all that had happened during the revolution, he still faced each fight as if he thrived on the rush of blood.
He didn't think about consequences.
He didn't suffer from those moments where he could barely breathe at the thought of everything he might lose.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have played that card. I didn't realize how upset you were. It's okay, Lark. I'm fine."
"Hold still," she growled, bringing her knife to her throat.
A gentle slash, and then blood dripped down her neck, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. Straddling Charlie's thighs, she lifted his head to her throat. "Drink."
"You're very demanding when you're worried."
But darkness flared in his eyes.
Charlie grabbed her by the nape, his lips locking over the wound. The first pull of his mouth made every muscle in her body tighten. She'd never been bled before, but she knew the chemicals in a blue blood's saliva had an addictive quality. All the better to lure their prey.
Lark's hand closed in a fistful of his hair. Her thighs clenched shut, thwarted in their efforts by his hips. Good God. She wanted to rock against him, to assuage that hot little ache right between her legs.
Charlie's mouth gentled, and his tongue licked the ravaged edges of her wound. None too soon. Lark's body trembled, right on the edge of a precipice.
Their gazes met.
It was as if he sensed her need.
"You stupid fool," she breathed, clutching his face in both hands. "What were you thinking, leaping in front of me like that?"
"That I couldn't bear to see you hurt," he rasped, and then there were no more words, for their mouths met, and he stole the breath from her lungs.
Lark gasped, tasting her own blood on his lips. The unfulfilled ache within her surged as the craving rose.
Everything she'd been holding at bay came crashing down. All her walls... gone. She shoved his shirt back over his shoulders, rocking forward until she straddled his hips. The hard press of his erection ground right between her thighs, and suddenly it was all she could do not to sink her teeth into his throat and bite him.
He kissed her. Hard. Frantic.
Teeth sank into her lower lip until she felt that touch stroke right between her thighs. Hands slid down her hips, learning her shape, and then he was cupping her bottom and dragging her right against him. She could feel the rough nudge of his codpiece against the slick chafe of her seam. The sensation shivered all the way through her.
Kissing Charlie. How many years had she dreamed of this in her secret heart of hearts, never daring to give him even a hint of how she felt? But dreams were smoke and mist, and this felt so damned real. She hadn't expected the rush of overwhelming sensation, from the rasp of her nipples against the tight press of her shirt and waistcoat, to the feel of his calluses snagging on her trousers. Digging her fingers into the hard flex of his biceps, she broke the kiss just enough to gasp in a desperate breath.
She needed to clear her head. Catch her breath. Stop
her mind from reeling out of control. They were under a bloody bridge, damn it all, and she was wet and dripping, and Gemma and Obsidian were right above them somewhere and—
"Lark." He kissed her teasingly. A smoky lure.
Damn, he was good at this.
Fingers tugged at the buttons on her trousers. Lark drew back, taking in the darkening flare of his pupils as they asked her a question.
"Let me make amends."
Is that what we're calling it? She touched her fingers to his lips. Yes.
Hard, insistent fingers found her drawers. His fingertips stroked right over her, and suddenly she didn't care where she was. The exhilaration of the night was roaring through her veins, and the aftereffects of the fight left her tingling with a rush of blood. Lark threw her head back as Charlie stroked that slick, swollen spot between her thighs. She couldn't control any of this, least of all her own body.
Biting her lip, she tried not to gasp out loud as his clever finger wrought a new sort of torture.
He was driving her out of her mind.
And he lay there with a lazy smile on his face as if he knew it.
She couldn't just allow that.
Lark kissed her way down the corded muscles in his throat, splaying his wet shirt wide. Charlie was so deliciously formed. Everyone's eyes had been upon him tonight, and she could hardly blame them. Sleek muscle rippled over his broad-boned frame. But only she got to touch him. Only she got to lick her way down his chest. She rocked against his touch, feeling his questing fingers steal through the slit in her drawers, and then there was nothing between them.
"Kiss me," he breathed.
She captured his mouth again, thighs splaying wide, careless of where they were or what they were doing.
All she knew was that she needed to fulfill that throbbing ache within her. And then he was tracing slow, careful circles, holding her on the edge of pleasure as if to torment her. Fingers digging into his chest, she panted frantically, rubbing against him shamelessly.
"Please," she whispered.
Charlie's thumb pressed intently to that one little spot that mattered. Her body shattered. Lark saw stars. And then she was collapsing over him, gasping against his neck as the rumble of a soft laugh vibrated through his chest.