Kiss of Steel

by McMaster, Bec

  Blade looked up. Smiled. “Aye. But you’re on my turf. I ain’t the one trespassin’.”

  A roar went up from the crowd. The sounds of a dying gurgle came from the ring. Colchester was trying not to breathe. A thin line of blood sprang up against his collar.

  Blade held Barrons’s gaze for a moment longer, then stepped back.

  Colchester sucked in a breath. “You son of a bitch,” he spat, trying to rise.

  Barrons caught his arm. Forced him back into his seat. “Sit down! People are watching.”

  “Then they can watch me kill this bloody cur!” Colchester retorted.

  Debney looked around. “Not here,” he said.

  Colchester’s eyes narrowed with hatred. “You’ll pay for this.”

  Blade shrugged. “Mebbe. But it ain’t goin’ to be you.”

  Barrons’s gaze suddenly caught on something in the crowd. His eyes widened, and then he looked away, far too swiftly.

  Blade swung a leg out over the rail and glanced out to see what had caught his attention. There was nothing but a sea of people. And then he froze. Honoria was making her way through the crowd, her face barely visible behind a charcoal wool shawl she’d draped over her head. She hurried along in Will’s wake as he shouldered his way up toward Blade’s box.

  Barrons gave the crowd another seemingly disinterested sweep with his eyes, but his gaze lingered on her a second too long. He knew her, knew her well enough to identify her from the brief glimpse of her pale face. And he didn’t want anyone to know.

  How? Something vicious screamed through Blade for a moment, and his fingers dug into the rail. Something brutal and primal that wanted to go for Barrons’s throat. Was she an old friend, a lover? Why would Barrons try to hide the connection between them? If he was any friend of Colchester’s, he’d have pointed her out. Colchester could drag her before Vickers to collect the handsome reward.

  Over my dead body.

  Blade gave them a chilling smile. “Have a fine evenin’ gents. Enjoy me ’ospitality for the night. I wouldn’t recommend tryin’ it again if I were you. I’ll keep in touch.” He touched his fingers to his hair in a mocking salute, then leapt off the rail.

  Surging through the crowd, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He was going to wring her neck! And Will’s, for daring to bring her here. What the bloody hell were they thinking?

  Blade caught Honoria by the arm as they reached the stairs to his box. She gave a small shriek, covering her mouth with her hand when she saw who had grabbed her.

  “Blade,” she said in a breathy little voice.

  Will turned quickly. Then eased back, reading the fury in Blade’s tightly held frame. Blade pushed her toward him. “Get ’er out of ’ere. Now.”

  She staggered into Will’s side. Blade continued on past them as though she were of no importance. He hissed under his breath, “Take ’er ’ome. And make sure you ain’t followed.”

  “What’s going on?” Honoria asked.

  He shot her a dark sidelong look. “I got three of the Ech’lon ’ere, watchin’ me every move. Go with Will and don’t give ’im any trouble. I’ll be ’ome shortly once I’ve slipped ’em.”

  Honoria’s face drained of color. “What are they doing here?”

  “They likes the blood sport. Now go.”

  At least if anyone was watching, they’d be hesitant to take Will on. Every blue blood alive knew what those yellow eyes meant and just what the burly youth could do. A single verwulfen could bring down a half dozen blue bloods when he was in a fit of berserker rage. That was why they’d been hunted to death in England, or caged as a curiosity for the Echelon to display.

  Barrons was watching with his arms crossed over his chest. Just as he’d suspected. Blade gave him another chilling smile. “Mine,” he mouthed silently, knowing Barrons could read his lips.

  ***

  Honoria sat in the parlor, her hands pressed together. Will stirred the fire, and the one they called Tin Man rolled a ball of yarn across the floor beside Lark, trying to amuse the enormous thirty-pound tom that batted at it lazily. Despite Tin Man’s grim appearance, the smile on his face was almost childlike. Lark leaned against his shoulder, her eyes blinking tiredly.

  The door opened. Honoria stiffened as Blade stalked in.

  The fury on his face had died, replaced by that cool look of nonchalance he often wore. He snapped his fingers and Lark and Tin Man looked up.

  “Out,” he said, including Will in the general sweep of his gaze. “Lark, you’re fit for bed, and I want you two on the rooftops. The fog’s thick enough to walk on tonight. I don’t think I were followed, but you never know. Can’t smell ’em comin’, those bastards.”

  Will turned from his fire tending. “I tried to tell her not to go.”

  “Aye. I don’t ’old you accountable. Can’t argue with the devil.”

  They left the room without another word, or so much as a glance in her direction. Just her and him. Alone now.

  Blade prowled toward the fireplace, resting a hand against the mantel. The light gleamed in a burnished sheen over his face and front, casting subtle shadows over his body. Tight, black leather pants molded faithfully over his thighs, and the flamboyant red waistcoat was made of touchable velvet. A pocket watch dangled from his well-cut black coat, the cuffs made of the same red velvet. Gray military-style frogging held his lapels open, and inches of black silk adorned his throat in an intricate cravat. Though his ensemble bore some similarity to the subdued wardrobe of the masses, he couldn’t resist the exotic touches. Composed now, the only sign of his mood was in his disheveled dirty-blond hair.

  “I didn’t realize you were meeting with the Echelon tonight,” Honoria said. She couldn’t believe Leo had been there. With Colchester. He knew what a slimy cretin Colchester was, forever trying to emulate Vickers.

  Blade crossed his arms over his chest. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me tonight. Ain’t your night for it.”

  “I…I…” The words died on her tongue as she stared at him. A flush of heat crept up her cheeks and she dropped her gaze.

  “Honor?” His tongue curled around the word, sending a shiver over her skin. He took a step toward her. “Why did you come ’ere tonight?”

  “Do you have anything to drink?”

  “Whiskey? Rum? Gin?”

  “Do you have any brandy?”

  Blade crossed silently to the liquor cabinet. Honoria’s knees trembled, so she sat down again, clasping her hands. The splash of liquid gurgled, and then he screwed the thin metal lid back onto the flask. “’Ere. Drink it slow like. She’ll curl your toes.”

  She accepted the glass. For a moment their fingers touched and he refused to let it go. Their eyes met. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His skin was cool, absorbing the feverish heat of her own body. What would it be like to have his hands on her? Those cool, callused hands that moved with such nimble grace. She’d rarely been touched by a man. Only Vickers, and his touch had always left her nauseous.

  Blade’s skin was cool too, yet when he touched her she burned.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and dropped her gaze.

  He let go. Stepped back. “’Ere,” he said, tugging a small package out of a drawer. “I bought you this.”

  Honoria’s gaze narrowed on the small, paper-wrapped package. “What is it?”

  “A gift.”

  She took it, though she shouldn’t have. “You’re not supposed to buy me things.”

  An ember of something hot flared in his eyes. “Are you goin’ to open it?”

  She tore the packaging apart. A pair of dark brown kid gloves tumbled into her lap, the leather so fine and luscious that they had to have cost him a small fortune. A little sinking feeling curled through her stomach. “Oh.” She shook her head. “I can’t. You cannot buy personal items for a lady.”

  “Who’s to know?” His green eyes challenged her.

  “I would know.” And that made all the difference. He mus
t have seen how worn her last pair was. The act was extremely considerate. She almost felt like crying. “I can’t accept these.” Especially not with the proposal she had come to put to him. She set them aside reluctantly.

  A flat look came over his expression. “Why are you ’ere?”

  The brandy burned all the way down. But it warmed her from within too. She was suddenly shivering, but not from the cold. “How much?”

  The words were barely audible. But Blade froze as though she’d shouted at him. “How much what?”

  “How much will you give me? For my blood?”

  He could have been a statue. Honoria looked away and swiftly drank down the last of the brandy. Damn him. Bitterness burned in her throat. The words were hard to force out. “I no longer have employment. I need to pay the doctor’s bills, to buy food for…for my brother and sister. I’m desperate.”

  And still he said nothing. A flare of heat burned in his eyes. He took a step away from her. Another. Turned and glared into the fireplace. “Bloody ’ell.”

  Fear ran through her. She’d thought he’d be eager for the opportunity to humble her. He’d made no secret of his intent to have her. But he didn’t look eager at all. In fact, he looked almost as though she’d struck him a blow.

  Honoria stood, her hands clinging to her skirts. He couldn’t say no. If he did, then she had no other options. “I’m begging you,” she whispered. It hurt everything she had in her to say it, but the sudden swamping wave of fear that he would reject her was stronger than her pride. Pride wouldn’t see her fed. It wouldn’t give Charlie his medication or Lena the new shawl she desperately needed.

  Blade shot her a look over his shoulder, eyes ablaze with anger. She took a step back in surprise. “Damn you,” he snarled.

  Honoria didn’t understand. “Do you want me to get down on my knees?” He’d liked the idea of her begging him after all. She swept her skirts out and bent down, the way she’d always done for one of the Echelon.

  Blade moved so quickly she barely saw him. Then his hands were on her arms, forcing her back to her feet. Honoria sucked in a shocked gasp and looked up at him. He glared at her.

  “No need to be so bleedin’ dramatic!” he snapped and shook her a little.

  Honoria clutched at his wrists. “I—I thought you wanted me to beg. Stop it. You’re hurting me!”

  He let her go and turned away with a snarl. Honoria staggered to the side, watching as he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

  Silence fell. She didn’t dare move. She could feel his phantom touch on her arms where his fingers had gripped her. She rubbed at them. “Don’t you want me?” she whispered. “I thought—”

  “I want you.” He lowered his hands, but he didn’t turn to face her. A soft laugh escaped him. “Don’t ever doubt it, luv.” He shot her a look, and she saw that his eyes had bled to black.

  Honoria stilled. She’d seen Vickers do that when he was angry or hungry. She’d learned to be very quiet when she recognized that look.

  Blade sank into the armchair. “Don’t you ever beg me again.”

  Of all the things! “You wanted me to!”

  “Aye, well, I didn’t mean it. I says things sometimes that’s only me pride speakin’.” His lips suddenly quirked. “You could say I’ve as much of a stiff neck as you at times.”

  She stared at him. The black was fading from his eyes, showing just a hint of hard emerald.

  Blade crossed his arms over his middle. “How much do you want?”

  She’d done the sums in her head. But it was best to start higher and bargain her way lower. “Thirty pounds a month,” she said boldly.

  A high price for just her blood. A high price for the use of her body too. Perhaps her soul might cost as much.

  “Done,” Blade said. He stood and paced toward a painting. Behind it was a safe, with careless piles of coins. If it belonged to anyone else, they wouldn’t dare keep so much money together, but nobody in Whitechapel was foolish enough to steal from the devil himself.

  “That’s all? I thought…” She trailed off. No need to invite him to lower the price. “How many times a week would you require my services?” A thought occurred. “Only my blood.”

  He counted out the money. Honoria licked her lips, trying not to stare at it. As soon as he put it in her hand she would owe him, but a part of her mind raced. Thirty pounds. Rent, medication, enough for a good doctor and food…So much food! New gloves for Lena, new thread for her stockings—goodness, perhaps even new stockings if she dared—and a thick, heavy coat for Charlie, not that he’d be going outside.

  How quickly she had become so mercenary. A year ago she’d looked down upon such women as sold themselves on the streets. Now she was no better than they. Hunger and poverty could drive a person to abandon all of their morals.

  “I know.” Blade turned and held up the small pouch. It fell into her hands with a heavy jingle. He sank back into the armchair, tugging his gold cheroot case out of his pocket. “We’ll discuss that later.”

  She jerked her gaze up from the pouch of money in her hands. “No. I’d prefer to discuss it now. Or I’ll leave this here and owe you nothing.”

  Blade ran a cheroot through his fingers, flipping it over and under like a sleight-of-hand artist. “Once every three weeks.”

  “So far apart?” Her eyebrows shot up. That was certainly reasonable. She put the heavy pouch down on the table and started tugging at her shawl. Her fingers wouldn’t work properly.

  “Takes the body awhile to renew the blood,” he shrugged. “A lesson I learned o’er many years.” His gaze narrowed on her hands. “What are you doin’?”

  “I would prefer the marks not to be visible. I still intend to seek employment.” She knew what that meant. There were very few veins that would give him what he needed. And neither her sleeves nor her neckline concealed her adequately enough. The shawl finally came free. She folded it neatly and put it down. Her hands were shaking.

  “Honoria. Look at me.”

  To look at him would undo her. She slipped her shoes off and crossed toward him, her stockinged feet sinking into the thick carpets. To have his mouth on her skin…She shook the thought off with a shiver. Such an intimacy had never occurred to her. A hot little flush swept through her lower belly.

  “What are you doin’?” he asked, voice low and rough.

  His booted feet were crossed. Leather strained over his thighs, and his fingers dug into the armrests as though to restrain himself.

  “We have a deal,” she reminded him, lifting her skirts delicately and putting her foot up on the cushion. The hard muscle of his thigh rested against her ankle. His fingers went white with sudden strain.

  “Honoria.”

  She slid her skirts up. There was a lump in her throat. Her hands trembled but obeyed her will. The threadbare wool at her ankle was revealed. Then higher. Her calves. Her knee. She slid her skirts all the way up, revealing the faded pink ribbon of her garters. Heat flushed through her cheeks. What a shame that she couldn’t be wearing better undergarments, like the fine painted silk stockings she’d once owned.

  Blade sucked in a breath. “Put your skirts back down.”

  “I made a deal,” she repeated firmly and started working on the ribbons that held her stocking in place.

  His hand caught hers. Cool fingers against her own, the very fingertips touching her inner thigh.

  Honoria couldn’t help herself. She looked up. And nearly fell forward, into the burning depths of his black gaze. The hunger roared within him, a bottomless chasm that could never be fully sated.

  Her breath hitched.

  “You’ve been starvin’ yourself for months. You ain’t fit to lose any blood, let alone provide a decent feedin’. Put your bloody skirts down,” he snarled.

  “You want it,” she whispered. “I can see it in you. And I won’t owe you anything.”

  His fingers brushed against her thigh. For a moment he looked as though he was reconsi
dering. Then a steely expression settled on his face. “Damn your pride. It’ll be the death of you.” He moved in a blur of speed. Honoria found herself tumbled into the armchair as he streaked across the room.

  “I’m not—” She fell silent as he turned, sweeping an arm out.

  A vase smashed off the mantel. Blade spun and she froze, sinking back into the chair beneath his furious gaze.

  “You ain’t got a lick o’ self-preservation. You’re not strong enough for me to feed on. It’d do you in, quicker ’n the Drainers, but, no, you’re more worried ’bout what you owe me. Do you know ’ow bleedin’ stupid that is?”

  It stung. Because he was right.

  “You listen to me,” he snapped, pointing a finger at her. “I take care of me thralls. I know ’ow much I can take, ’ow much they can afford to lose.”

  “An eighth of a pint a day,” she said stiffly. “That’s the base limit of what you need to survive.”

  “Where’d you ’ear a piece o’ codswallop like that?”

  “They’ve done studies,” she protested.

  “Aye. Studies on the newly infected. The more the virus takes a man over, the more blood it needs. I’m close on ’alf a pint most days, though it can be more or less. Ain’t no rhyme nor reason to it.”

  “Half a pint?” she said faintly.

  “You ain’t the only thrall I got. I got ten I feed fresh from the vein off, and the rest I take cold, out o’ the icebox.”

  “From the draining factories.” Her thoughts on that flavored her tone.

  “You think the Ech’lon’d let me ’ave any o’ their precious blood supplies? I got me own stable o’ donators. It’s what it costs ’round ’ere for me protection. People is ’appy enough to bleed the odd ’alf pint for me.”

  The thought bothered Honoria somewhat. Ten thralls? That was practically a harem. And what a foolish thing to cause such prickling nausea. What did it matter if she were one of eleven? Or one of dozens even? It only meant that she would be spared the trials of feeding him more often. He could wallow in his blood whores for all she cared.