And from above, she saweverything.
The progression of the blows. The moments of hesitation. The way one man faltered just before he fell, and how another waited precisely for that weakness. She saw what the men below did not—patterns, intentions, the manner in which it might unfold. It made her stomach churn.
Violet cast a sideways glance to take stock of all the details within reach, careful not to turn fully. Two men stood close behind her, one to either side. Another blocked the narrow door at the end of the gallery, arms folded, expression blank.
How to escape?
Percival stood beside her, close enough that his arm brushed the sleeve of her coat. His gaze gleamed as he watched the fight below, bright with anticipation, with satisfaction. The sight of it made something inside her recoil.
Simply dash off.
You escaped Drake once, remember.
So true.
She clenched her hands in her skirts.
Drake was somewhere in this building. In what condition, she could not know, and the not knowing was its own particular misery. She should have told him that she loved him. She’d done everything else boldly, except for that. Now he might die before her very eyes, and those words would remain forever trapped in her heart.
How was it that regret always came two touches too late?
No, Vi. Until you both drop dead, there is still time.
That’s right. She shouldn’t lose hope too soon. Drawing in a steadying breath, she gave a firm, inward nod.
“Are you enjoying the fight, my dear?”
Urgh. Detestable creature.
“What do you imagine?” she hissed back, refusing to look at Percival. She’d have to whack him on the back of the head as he did Drake.
“That, my dear, I cannot say. You’ve changed quite a lot. Nevertheless, after the main event, ours will begin.”
She scoffed. She hadn’t changed all that much. She simply took control over her own life. Some men simply couldn’t stand such a thing. “You plan to force my hand here?”
“I’d have provided the grandest wedding for you had you not spread your legs for another man.”
Violet pulled a face. She’d exhausted her capacity for shock where Percival was concerned, but such crude words for something that had been so precious and wondrous sat ill with her. “What grand? With a viper tongue like yours, it would have been a sad affair no matter the pomp.”
“Be that as it may,” he clipped back. “A clergyman is on his way as we speak.”
By blazes. The man was serious. She needed to part from him as soon as possible. She was about to retort when a disturbance rippled through the crowd below. A shout went up, sharp and anticipatory, and the ring of bodies parted.
Violet’s breath caught.
Two men dragged Drake forward by the arms and shoved him into the open space at the center of the floor. He stumbled, and her hands shot out to the railing. He looked...haggard. She’d never seen him this downtrodden. Not even when he had stubbornly insisted he was not near collapse from blood loss. This was different. His face was ashen, lips drawn tight, his posture pitched ever so slightly off. One shoulder sagged lower than the other, his head dipping as if the effort of holding it upright cost him dearly. She could see, even from here, the careful way he rationed his breathing.
Her heart cried out for him.
Violet’s gaze snapped to the man waiting opposite him.
The victor of the last match.
She had scarcely spared him a thought before—he had been merely another fighter—but seen now, set against Drake’s unsteady frame, he looked monstrous. A mountain of a man. Broad as a carriage door, shoulders packed thick with muscle, his fists already scarred and swollen from prior blows. He rolled his neck once, lazily. Even bigger than the Ox!
Her fingers tightened over the railing.
Her gaze swept the crowd in a frantic search. Faces blurred together. Where was her brother? Was he not meant to fight Drake himself?
