Sebastian raised his head to look at Wesley, breathing so hard Wesley could hear him pant. “Are you all right, Lord Fine?”
Wesley had some bruises, some scrapes, and blisters on his arms. But he was alive, and free, and most importantly,not on fucking fire anymore, so what came out was, “Yes.”
“Oh good,” said Sebastian.
And then he toppled over.
“De Leon!” Wesley leaned forward, hurriedly shoving at de Leon’s shoulder. “De Leon, what the devil is going on?”
But as he forced de Leon over to his back, Wesley saw his eyes were closed. In a panic, he put his fingers on the other man’s neck. He let out a breath of relief as he found a pulse.
Unconscious. But alive.
Wesley sat back, his fingers still on the soft, warm skin of de Leon’s neck.
“Well...fuck,” he said inelegantly, to the alley.
Discomfort was the first thing Sebastian became aware of, his mouth parched and his head pounding. He ignored both, struggling to recall what had happened.
Mercier—the ring of fire—
Lord Fine.
Sebastian’s eyes flew open and he sat up.
Or tried to.
He swore as metal bit into his wrists. His arms were stretched up and out to either side, cuffed to—he craned his neck with difficulty, following the line of his right arm—cuffed to—
Bedposts?
Tall mahogany bedposts, exquisitely carved, and above them stretched a deep green canopy, embroidered with gold. His head rested on something soft, and the fabric against his cheek was like silk.
A twitch of his legs confirmed they were free, and there was no bite of lead against his skin. So someone with significant money had cuffed him to a bed, but they hadn’t taken his magic into account—
“Finally awake, are you?”
Sebastian turned his head to the left, toward the sound of Lord Fine’s voice.
The viscount was only a few feet away, sitting in a chair of dark wood and green velvet. He had removed his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows above bandaged forearms, and on his lap was a revolver.
Sebastian swallowed around his scratchy throat. “Good...evening?” he tried.
“It’s morning,” Lord Fine said dryly. “You’ve been unconscious for six hours.”
Oh,Sebastian’s mouth formed. He eyed the uncomfortable straight back of the chair. If Lord Fine had been sitting there the whole time, he was likely stiff, sore, and even more on edge. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
If anything, that made Lord Fine’s expression even more suspicious. “You’re the one in handcuffs. I’m the one holding a gun.” He leaned forward, and in a dangerous voice said, “Tell me, why exactly do you thinkIshould be the worried one?”
Uh-oh. Sebastian wet his lips. “Is there a reason I’m here?” he asked, instead of answering.
“Because I have questions.”
Lord Fine’s gaze had traveled from Sebastian’s face to his outstretched arms, and was lingering. Was he straining against the handcuffs? That would only make poor Lord Fine even more nervous.
Sebastian forced his muscles to stop flexing. “I meant, is there a reason I’mhere, in this bedroom?”
“Was I supposed to leave you passed out on the street?”
