“Understood?” he said softly, dangerously.
She swallowed. “Not even a little bit.”
He closed his eyes like her entire existence was giving him a migraine. Then leaned down even closer. “This is not a game, Thea,” he said, voice barely audible now. “This—us—it’s real. So if I say you’re mine, and I tell them you’re my fiancée, then you’re mine. Really mine. Don’t make me say it twice.”
Her breath caught. Her pulse positively rioted. And when his fingers brushed the back of her hand—just a whisper, just a tremble—she forgot entirely how words worked.
Somewhere down the corridor, footsteps echoed. A door banged.
She blinked. Reality returned like a slap to the face. “Wait, what did you just say?” she managed.
But Alaric was already straightening and adjusting his gloves, mask firmly back in place. He turned to the constable approaching. “Let her go.”
“But sir, she was caught—”
“She’s myfiancée,” he said with the crisp finality of a gavel, and Thea nearly swallowed her tongue. “Isn’t that right, Thea?”
“Absolutely!” she chirped, playing along, and definitely reeling. “Yes, I’ve agreed to be his fiancée.”
The constable hesitated. Blinked. Looked between them. “Oh. Right. Yes. Congratulations?”
Alaric did not blink. “Release her.” And then,oh dear heavens above, he reached down, grabbed her shawl, and held it open like some kind of chivalrous demon escort from a fever dream. “Coming, darling?” he asked with a look that said she absolutely better.
Thea stood, wobbled slightly, and gave the constable a dazed smile as she swept out the door behind the man who had just claimed her with feral intensity and also legal documentation.
“Fiancée,” she whispered under her breath, trailing after him. For the first time that day, the rain didn’t feel quite so cold.
Chapter Three
Highgate Cemetery
October 31, 1847
Just past dawn…
It was barelysix hours since she’d said yes to his proposal at the station.
Seven since she’d been arrested.
And maybe ten since she’d poured herself into his vision all wet and dripping in her grandmother’s parlor while he tried valiantly not to stare at her breasts like they were personally affronting his moral code.
Absolutely none of that explained why Theodosia Blackwood—hisfiancée—was now standing knee-deep in brambles with a camera the size of a cathedral organ, snapping photos of crypts like she hadn’t just obliterated every rule of police protocol and personal sanity known to man.
“Itoldher,” Alaric muttered, the syllables coming out like gravel and iron. “Ibloody told her—”
She adjusted the lens, bent over slightly. The back of her skirt tugged across the curve of her—Alaric swore. Softly, in Latin. His hand dropped to his coat pocket, brushing the cool metal of his handcuffs.
He should arrest her.
He shouldabsolutelyarrest her.
That was the job. That was the law. That was what Chief Inspector Castlebury had made blisteringly clear in the office not even six hours ago. And yet Alaric ran his thumb along the edge of the steel like it might purr for him.
A dangerous image flashed through his mind. Not of Thea in a cell, but in his bed. Wrists caught above her head. Chest rising fast. Lips parted like she was about to whisper something unholy. Her curls spread across his pillow like she’d been there all along.
Alaric growled low in his throat.
This woman was going to destroy him. She had been ruining him since the age of fifteen, when she punched Oliver Fairfax for calling her a witch and he fell a little bit in love with the way her nose crinkled when she swore. Now she was twenty-eight, muddy, breathless, and a walking violation of every oath he’d ever taken in Her Majesty’s service.
