“Good day, Mr. Fury.” She tossed the keys to the side and walked out, leaving the Brighton Brute locked in his own damn dungeon.
*
This bloody woman.
She had the audacity, the sheer, unmitigated audacity, to walk out on him and leave him locked in his own blasted cell. Drake stared at the door for a full, stunned heartbeat. Then another. His mind, usually sharp as a cutlass, supplied absolutely nothing except a confoundedWhat in the seven bloody hells just happened?
He tested the bars with one hand.
Solid.
Immovable.
Bloody everlasting all.
“Violet,” he bellowed, knowing she would never return. He spat a violent curse and dragged a hand down his face.
Devil take it.
“Carnivorous flower,” he muttered, remembering her warning. Fine. He wouldn’t forget. Indeed, she was proving precisely that. Pretty, soft-smelling, all bright petals with hair like fire. But he was a creature from the pit, built to devour foolish little things like her.
That’s why you’re sitting locked in your own dungeon, is it?
Damn it.
Why did Reaper’s voice have to fill his damn head? Drake could practically see the man’s expression: amused, pitying, unbearably smug. The great Drake Fury reduced to this. He’d never live this down. His brother was going to die laughing if he ever learned of this.
Which he never would.
Not if Drake could help it.
And little Miss Violet Sharpe . . .
He flexed his jaw, clenching his fists.
Oh, she would pay for this.
Right after one of his blasted brothers came to let him out.
How many blasted hours would that be? Pacing the narrow confines of the cell like a caged bull, Drake muttered every foul curse he knew and invented several new ones. The candelabra on the other side flickered mockingly. Well, at least she left him the light. That was something, he supposed. Darkness didn’t bother him, but in a dungeon, his brothers wouldn’t bother looking for him here if they didn’t spot a flicker of light.
The sweet sound of footfalls once again approached.
Bloody hell, yes.
Earlier, he hadn’t expected Knight to show up. He couldn’t even fathom a reason why he would. Now, however, he was deuced pleased by whatever had brought his brother over.
The footsteps grew louder, and a long shadow stretched across the threshold, and then Knight appeared, filling the doorway. Sure, like a judgmental monolith, but pleasant to the eye, nonetheless. His gaze swept the scene—Drake in the cell, the key on the floor—with the bland expression of a brother who had expected nonsense the moment he’d appeared the first time, but perhaps not this level of nonsense.
Knight’s stare returned to Drake, his brow climbing up his forehead.
Drake took back his earlier conjecture. Just kill me and tell the rest it was an accident.
“Not one word,” he growled.
Knight dismissed his warning outright. “I’d ask what I’m looking at, but I think I have a good idea.”
“And what bloody idea is that?” For all his brother knew, the woman pulled a pistol on him.
