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Her grasp threatened to stop the circulation of his blood through his fingers. “Devil,” she whispered.
He looked to her then. “Devon.”
It was important she remember that now, the name that he’d inherited not from a family, but from nothing. Important, too, that he remember it, here with her as pure temptation—making him wish he could take her for his own. He hadn’t won the competition. He was not the duke. He was still nothing.
Memories swirled. Whit, reed-thin and small, with too many teeth in his little face, his impish smile big and bright. Grace, tall and sturdy, with sunken sad eyes. And Ewan, all long legs and sharp bones, like a foal. And with a monstrous determination.
“One of us would inherit everything. And the others, they would receive a different fate. A lesser one.”
“How?” she whispered to him. “How did he choose?”
Devil shook his head. “He would tell you he didn’t choose. He would tell you we chose.”
“How?”
“We fought for it.”
She exhaled at the revelation, harsh and low. “Fought how?”
He looked to her then, finally able to meet her gaze. Eager to see the horror in it. Ready for her to understand from where he had come. And how. Ready for her to see what he had known from the start—that he was so far beneath her that he might as well be in hell.
When she was gone from his life, he would be in hell.
“However he asked.”
She clutched his hand, her grip stronger than he would have imagined it could be. “No. That’s madness.”
He nodded. “The physical challenges were easy. First sticks and stones. Fists and fire. But the mental ones—those were the ones that destroyed us. He’d lock us up, alone in the dark.” He hated telling her, but somehow, couldn’t stop the words from coming. “Tell us that we could be set free, into the light, if we’d choose another to fight.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“He gave us gifts, took them away. Sweets. Toys . . .” He paused, a memory teasing at the edge of his mind. “He gave me a dog. Let it keep me warm in the dark for days. And then told me I could keep it forever if I traded it for one of the others.”
She pressed closer to him. Wrapped her arms around him, as though she could ward off the memory. “No.”
He shook his head and looked to the sky, sucking in air. “I refused. Whit was my brother. Grace my sister. And Ewan . . .”
Ewan had been the only one allowed to keep his dog.
What had Ewan done?
Felicity shook her head. Pressed her face into his arm. “No.”
His arm came around her, stroking over her hair, pulling her tight against him. Ewan would never have Felicity.
“He wanted the strongest of us for his heir. The hungriest.” He wanted the son who would give him a legacy. “At some point, I stopped competing. I simply tried to keep the others safe.”
“You were children,” she whispered, and he heard the wound in her voice, as though she’d never imagined such torture. “Surely someone tried to stop his crimes.”
“They are only crimes if they are discovered,” he said quietly. “We found ways to stay together. Ways to keep sane. We made promises to each other, never to let him win. Never to let him take us from each other.”
Felicity was looking down at her lap now, and he knew this was the ending. That she wouldn’t return to Covent Garden after this story. She wouldn’t return to him. He forced himself to finish. “But when it came down to it . . . we weren’t strong enough.” The scar on his cheek burned with the memory of Ewan’s blade, sharp and unpleasant. With the order that had caused it. His father’s voice ringing out in the darkness.
If you want it, boy, you must take it from the others.
Ewan coming for him.
He exhaled, extinguishing the memory. “We had no choice but to run.”
She did not look up. “Here.”
He nodded.
“How long were you there?”
“Two years. We were twelve when we left.”
Her breath came on a harsh exhale. “Two years.”
He pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her temple. “We survived it.”
She looked to him, long enough for her beautiful gaze to set his heart to racing. “I wish I could give those years back.”
He smiled and stroked his thumb across her soft cheek. “I would take them.” Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. “No, love.” He shook his head. “No tears. Not for me.”
She dashed one away. “There was no one you could trust.”
“We trusted each other,” he said. And it was the truth. “We vowed we would grow strong and powerful, rich as royalty. And we would mete out a single, endless punishment—my father always wanted heirs. As long as we lived, he would never get them.”
Her eyes glistened in the starlight, her mouth set in a firm, straight line. “I want him dead.”
His brows shot up.
“I know it’s wrong. I know it’s a sin. But your father—I hate even calling him that—he deserves nothing short of death.”
It took a moment for him to find his reply. “He received it.”
She nodded. “I hope it was painful.”
He couldn’t help his smile at that. His magnificent lockpick, known to all of London as a wallflower, was a lioness. “If he weren’t dead, you’re enough to make me wish I could bring him to you as a trophy.”
“It’s not a jest, Devon,” she said, her voice wavering with emotion. “You didn’t deserve it. None of you did. Of course you are terrified of darkness. It was all you ever had.”
He pulled her tight to him, whispering into her hair. “Believe it or not, love, now it is impossible to remember the way the darkness terrified me. As it is impossible to imagine that I will ever think of darkness without thinking of tonight. Without thinking of you.”
Felicity turned toward him, her hand coming around his waist, pulling him tight to her as she bent her legs and wrapped herself against his side. The movement, immediate and without artifice, consumed him, and he could not resist mirroring her contortion, bending toward her, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her close. Pressing his face to her neck and inhaling her delicious scent. Jasmine was ruined for him. It would always be tied to this magnificent woman, with her soft skin and her lush body and the hint of it—enough to make his mouth water.
It was only then, as they curled together, as he breathed her in, that he felt her tears, the dampness on her neck, the ragged breath in her lungs. He pulled back and pressed a kiss to the damp tracks on her cheek. “No, sweet girl. No. No tears. I am not worth them.”
Her fist clenched at the edge of his waistcoat, pulling the fabric and him closer. “Stop saying that,” she whispered. “Stop trying to convince me you lack value.”
He lifted her bare hand to his lips, kissing her palm. “I do.”
“No. Shut up.”
He grazed his teeth over the full flesh at the base of her thumb. “You are a princess compared to me. A fairy queen. Don’t you see?” He licked the soft skin there. “My past is without value. My future, too. But yours . . .” His breath was hot against her palm. “Like Janus, I see your future. And it is glorious.”
Without me.
She heard the words he did not say. “You’re wrong. Your past is who you are—it bears infinite worth. And my future is nothing without you. The only thing that is glorious is our present.”
“No, love. Our present . . .” He gave a little huff of laughter. “Our present is torture.”
“Why?”
He reached for her, wrapping his fingers around her neck, pulling her close. Holding her still so he could watch her eyes when he told her the truth. “Because my present is only you, Felicity Faircloth. And you cannot be my future.”
Her eyes closed at the words, stayed that way for an impossibly long time as her lips twitched with frustration and emotion and her throat worked and her breath came
in harsh, angry pants. When she finally, finally opened them, there were tears glistening in their beautiful brown depths. Tears, and anger, and something he recognized because he knew it was mirrored in his own.
