Mission_Improper

by Bec McMaster

  looked down this road."

  There was a subtle withdrawal as she stared

  past him, toward the ceiling. "I never looked down

  this road either," she admitted, but it sounded sad.

  "You've dreamed of it though," he pushed. "I

  could see it in your face when you were holding

  Phillip that time at dinner."

  Ingrid bit her lip and turned back to him. "I

  never used to dream. Not when I was trapped in

  the cage, because if you dared to dream, then you

  would dare to hope. And nothing hurts more than

  having that crushed and thrown in your face."

  A fierce, bloody desire filled him, and he

  kissed her mouth. "I sometimes wish Lord Balfour

  hadn't died in the revolution. Then I could take him

  apart with my bare hands for you."

  "So do I." No smile, no regret from her. Only

  bloody violence gleaming in her eyes. "I never

  dared to dream when I was trapped under

  Balfour’s hand. But when we escaped from him,

  life changed. It was still hard, don't mistake me.

  But... we'd escaped Balfour. That was all I’d ever

  wanted. I grew into a young woman in Undertown,

  because it wasn't safe for a free verwulfen to be

  seen above ground, but I was out of the cage. The

  dreams that I'd never dared dream came true. And

  something else began to grow in my chest, in my

  heart. A sense of something missing. Then three

  years ago we won the revolution, but it always felt

  a little hollow for me, because"—she looked away

  —"that something was still missing."

  "Your family."

  She shrugged, as if careless of her feelings.

  Or perhaps trying to dismiss the depth of them.

  "Maybe I'll never find them. I think that sometimes

  in the middle of the night. And... I might not have

  dreamed of children before, but if you asked me if

  I wanted them? Then yes, yes I think I do. Holding

  Phillip fills that hole inside me. Not all the way,

  but for a moment I belong."

  "Trust me." This time his tone was dry. "You

  belong to Rosa. And her brothers. I've learned that

  in the last week."

  "And Rosa belongs to Lynch," she said with

  another careless shrug. "Jeremy's been walking out

  with young Evelyn, and even Jack's been making

  calf eyes at Debney."

  Byrnes reared back. "What?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Right under your nose.

  You call yourself an investigator."

  He frowned.

  "I belong to them," she continued in a softer

  voice. "And I always will, but it's not the same.

  Because they all have that someone else, and I will

  always remain the interloper."

  "No, you're not. Don't ever stop dreaming of

  that, Ingrid." He wanted to curl her in his arms,

  take away the hurt he saw deep within her. It

  became a physical ache in his chest. "Dream that

  dream. You deserve it.”

  Ingrid looked up at him, resolve firming in her

  eyes. "Then I will. I want a family of my own. Just

  as I suspect you don't."

  He shifted. "It's not that easy."

  "I thought we were being honest with each

  other?"

  "I am." He rolled to the side again, landing

  flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. "It's not

  that I don't want children. It just... scares the hell

  out of me."

  Ingrid rolled over him, kissing his shoulder,

  but she never took her gaze off him. "Why?"

  Why? He stilled, and knew she felt it. There

  was a knot growing hard in his lower abdomen. A

  knot of hard emotion, of things felt but never

  admitted to. The only person who had ever gotten

  close to seeing it had been Lynch, and even then the

  duke had only skimmed the top of it.

  He didn't want to speak of it.

  But he had promised her honesty.

  Byrnes cleared his throat. "What if I'm

  terrible with them?"

  "What if I am? Sometimes I fear I'll drop poor

  Phillip on the floor. He's so... squirmy."

  He looked at her. Really looked. "What if I'm

  a danger to them?"

  Ingrid sobered, then the bronze rings around

  her pupils seemed to intensify, as if she understood

  what he wasn't saying. "Why would you think

  that?"

  Another hesitation. Hell. "I'm a bastard,

  Ingrid. But if you were to line me up with Debney

  and my father... then you'd think I was the heir. I

  look at myself and see him sometimes." And there

  was nothing he hated more.

  "You never speak of your father."

  "That's because I killed him."

  Silence.

  He waited—waited for her revulsion, or

  something else to come. But Ingrid simply rested

  her head down upon his shoulder and slid her arm

  across his chest. It shook him all the way through

  and he caught her hand in his and clasped her

  fingers in silent relief. Maybe Lynch was right.

  Maybe Ingrid was the only woman who could ever

  handle the darkness within him.

  "Did he deserve it?"

  "Yes." That one word nearly overwhelmed

  him. All of it began to come back to him. The

  hatred, the rage, the shame, and worst of all... the

  helplessness. He swallowed it back down, but it

  sat like a hot coal in his chest, threatening to choke

  him.

  And she knew. Another kiss touched his

  shoulder. A confirmation. "What was he like?"

  "There was a darkness in him that scared me.

  A darkness that was nothing like the hunger of the

  craving virus, though he was a blue blood. He

  liked to hurt people. He enjoyed it. I don't know

  why, but it gave him some sense of power. H-he's

  the reason my mother is the way she is. He hit her

  one night because he thought he could—she was

  just a servant in his eyes, just his mistress—but

  this one time, she fell and hit her head on the

  fireplace. And she was never the same.”

  Ingrid's hands squeezed his. "He doesn't

  sound very much like you at all, Byrnes."

  "When I was a little boy, I was terrified of

  him, but I would have done anything to keep my

  mother safe. I could fight and be beaten bloody

  myself, or I could rage and scream, but nothing

  helped. Indeed, it only worsened the situation. My

  father would say, 'Are you angry, boy?' and I

  would nod, and then he would strike her down,

  then come back to me and say, 'That is what your

  anger has earned your mother.' He would say, 'You

  made me do this. Do you want to make me do

  more?' If I tried to stop him, or grew angry, he

  would hurt her again. And again." Byrnes took a

  deep breath, burying his face against Ingrid's

  abdomen. Hands slid through his hair, and just that

  simple touch eased the pressure inside him, the

  raging emotion that he couldn't quite contain.

  "There was nothing that I could do to stop him. I

  didn't dare let my anger rule me, or my fear, or

/>   sadness. Eventually I learned to bury all of my

  emotions so deep, until it felt like they were not

  there anymore. And that last time he hit her, I was

  so numb. I kept waiting for her to get up. But she

  didn't. If I had stopped him—"

  "He sounds like the kind of man who could

  not be stopped," Ingrid said softly.

  Byrnes looked up and fell into the bleeding

  compassion in her eyes. Grabbing her hand, he

  kissed her knuckles. "But I did stop him in the end.

  I killed him," he whispered. "It just... happened. I

  lost control and I had a knife, and I wanted to kill

  him. I wanted him to die for what he'd done. And I

  can't remember all of it, but afterwards... Christ,

  afterwards I looked up into the reflection in the

  window, and there he was. In me. I thought it was a

  ghost at first, but then I realized I was covered in

  blood. His blood." He could see it all over again.

  Lived it. "There's a darkness inside me that is

  capable of anything. Anything.” Emotion washed

  in upon him. Byrnes sucked in a breath, but it

  suddenly felt as though there was not enough

  oxygen in the room. "I... I—"

  Warm arms slid around his shoulders. "Just

  breathe," Ingrid told him. "In and out, Byrnes."

  And so he did. Ingrid became his lifeline in a

  sea of darkness, and as his breathing began to

  match hers, he realized that although he'd never

  looked down this road before, suddenly he didn't

  think he could see himself doing anything else.

  She was his future.

  She was his meaning in life, the reason to

  keep on fighting, keep on breathing. And if she

  wanted children, then he would stand by her side.

  Together they could achieve anything. He firmly

  believed that.

  "That's how I became a blue blood, actually."

  Facts were easier to deal with, than the complex

  emotions filling him. "There was so much blood,

  and that's when Debney found me." There was a

  vile taste in his mouth. "The look on his face—he

  was shocked. And I just lost it. 'Why didn't you

  stop him?' I screamed. I told him that it was his

  fault, because I knew it was mine, and I couldn’t

  bear to feel that way.”

  “It was your father’s fault. Not yours. Not

  Debney’s. Don’t take your father’s guilt away from

  him. He sounds like a monster. And you’re not him.

  I've known monsters in my time, Byrnes, and you're

  nothing like them. The fact that you're even

  worried about it should tell you that."

  Byrnes buried his face against her throat and

  sucked in a long, slow breath.

  "I know how you feel," Ingrid whispered.

  "Sometimes you make yourself so hard that nothing

  gets in. Nothing can hurt anymore, because you

  know you've reached the limits of what you can

  endure." Her hand stroked down his back. "If you

  stop caring, then it can't hurt anymore. It's a shell,

  something that words and blows just glance off, but

  something I learned, Byrnes, is that the shell is

  brittle. It will break, eventually."

  It took a long time to be able to find the voice

  to answer that. “You sound as though you speak

  from experience.”

  Ingrid shifted. “We all have our breaking

  point.”

  “What was yours?”

  “My family,” she admitted, tracing small

  circles on his chest with her finger.

  "That didn't sound very hopeful."

  "I'm not going to find them, Byrnes." Ingrid's

  eyelashes shuttered her eyes when she saw him

  looking. "I think I know that, deep inside, but if I'm

  still trying...."

  "Why don't you think you'll find them?"

  "Because I've spent years searching for them."

  Her fists clenched, frustration flooding through her

  and tears hovering on the edge of her eyelashes.

  "Years, and so much money, and... nothing. Going

  to Norway didn't help. I've travelled through towns

  all along the coast, but I could walk past them and

  not even recognize them. Last year was my fifth

  voyage. I don't remember enough to help me, and

  Balfour was the only one who kept any records of

  my sale, and he's dead! I'm trying to run an

  investigation with no clues, and no matter how

  much money I promise, too many girls went

  missing during those years thanks to English

  raiders. I can't stomach it anymore. The families...

  coming to me, hoping that I belong to them and then

  discovering that I don't. And worse than that are

  the people who see the reward I'm offering for

  information and pretend to be something they're

  not." Ingrid covered her face with her hands.

  This time it was his turn to drag her into his

  arms, wrapping them around her as if he could hide

  her from the world, from her pain. "Don't cry."

  "I'm not crying."

  His chest was wet, but he didn't call her on it.

  "This one time," she whispered, crying

  silently against his shoulder, "...there was a couple

  who seemed so perfect. Everything fit. Everything.

  I truly thought that I had done it... and then the

  woman slipped up." A long sigh went through her

  as her body softened.

  "It's all right, Ingrid." His throat burned with

  the ache of all she'd lost. "You're not alone. Not

  anymore."

  She cried for a long time as Byrnes simply

  absorbed it.

  It took him a long minute to realize that she

  was asleep, worn out by her grief and her

  confession. Byrnes continued to stroke her hair,

  then looked down at the honey-colored head

  resting on his chest.

  He didn't dare move, just in case he woke her,

  though he couldn't stop stroking his hand through

  that mess of hair. There was a fist lodged

  somewhere in his chest that felt like something he

  almost recognized. A little fist of hurt and worry

  and protectiveness that wasn't going to shift.

  This. This was what it felt like for the ice

  around his heart to melt. It felt like he was taking

  his first breath in years, through a raw, bloody

  throat. It was terrifying and yet exhilarating.

  "Ingrid," he whispered almost soundlessly, and that

  simple name turned the key, unlocking something

  he'd thought long buried.

  He'd spent so many years feeling nothing, or

  not understanding what he did feel. Aloof,

  watching the world around him, fitting together the

  pieces. It was what made him such a good

  investigator, but the lack of those emotions was

  what stopped him from being truly brilliant.

  And a plan formed.

  "If there's one thing I don't do—it's give up,"

  he whispered.

  Byrnes could find anything. It was what he

  did. The very thought of it made him nervous—this

  was no simple pledge, and there were stakes here

  that could rip a woman's heart from her chest. A


  woman who had slowly, somehow, curled her own

  fist around his long-frozen heart.

  "I'll find them, Ingrid," he whispered,

  pressing a kiss to her hair. "No matter how long it

  takes me. I promise I'll find them for you."

  But not yet. Now he had a group of vampires

  and anarchists to discover.

  THIRTY

  DAWN GLOWED GOLDEN on the horizon.

  Finally.

  Byrnes waited as Jack inspected the small cut

  on the back of his head where he'd inserted the

  tracking device an hour ago. It had already healed,

  thanks to Byrnes's CV levels, but they were taking

  no chances that Zero would smell any blood on

  him.

  Jack began to clean his instruments, as

  Debney paced the room. Byrnes hadn't been

  entirely surprised to see him here. Not after

  Ingrid's little revelation about the two men, but the

  pacing was getting on his nerves.

  "Heavens sake, would you sit down?" he

  growled. "You're making me dizzy."

  Debney promptly sank into a chair, knotting

  his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry."

  It took the edge off his words. "Don't you

  think you ought to go home? Get some rest?"

  "I don't think I can," Debney muttered.

  "Ulbricht's still out there somewhere, and... well...

  You're going to be careful?" Debney asked, and the

  words were so perfectly pronounced, that Byrnes

  hesitated.

  Flippant words died on the tip of his tongue.

  He eyed his brother. Was Debney actually worried

  about him? "I'll be careful," he promised.

  Debney let out a slow breath.

  "Ingrid will watch his back," Jack added,

  resting a hand on Debney's shoulder and squeezing.

  "Nothing's going to happen to him."

  Their eyes met, and Byrnes found himself in

  the middle of a moment that was awkwardly sweet.

  He stepped out of the way before Debney tried to

  do something ridiculous, like hug him.

  There were limits.

  Heels clicked on the hallway floor.

  "Slight problem," Ingrid said, sailing into the

  parlor. She wore her protective armored corset

  over a loose white shirt, and a tight pair of leather

  pants that showcased those Amazon legs to

  perfection. He couldn’t stop himself from looking,

  remembering them wrapped around his hips.

  Malloryn followed on her heels, slipping his

  embroidered coat from his shoulders. "I'm a

  problem now, am I?"

  That tore Byrnes’s attention off her legs. "I

  thought you were in meetings?" The last thing they