Honestly, she hadn’t known what to expect by dressing this way and boldly stepping into their lair alone. To begin with, she hadn’t expected the place to be so devoid of people. She had only been here once before, when she came with Holly, Pippa, and their husbands to inform the brothers of Calliope’s kidnapping. Other than that, she had never crossed paths with any of them, save for Drake. However, she suspected no one dared to enter here for a pint after a hard day of work.
The man with a scar slashing his left brow and blood on his face spoke first. “Well, well, well. How come the wind blew a little flower into our midst?” He glanced at Drake. “What have you been up to while I was running errands,frère?”
“I’d simply like to know what’s going on in general,” the brother with a scar lining his jaw asked. “Just what should my brother be ready for?”
Heh.
So the rest of her landlords were blissfully unaware of the trouble this one stirred.
“Forgive the intrusion.” Violet lifted a hand in a flutter of fingers. “We’ve yet to be properly introduced. I am Violet Sharpe, a tenant of yours.”
A man, face also bloodied but with no scars, stepped forward and bowed. “Deveraux Fury at your service. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
The other bloodied man snorted. “So gentlemanly. Don’t be fooled by him, little flower. He’s the worst of us. I’m the best. Reaper, they call me.”
Violet had absolutely no idea how one was meant to respond to such an introduction. And that couldn’t possibly be his real name, could it? Reaper. Downright sinister.
Drake stepped forward, squarely between Violet and this brother called Reaper, blocking off her view of him. “Don’t encourage this half-French rogue.”
He gestured to the man behind the bar. “Knight.” The man behind him. “Dagger.” And the one sitting at a table. “Saint. Maxen and Serpent are out.”
Right.
These names . . .
Were they like underworld nicknames?
To each his own, she supposed.
She didn’t want to even begin to fathom how these men got all their scars. The only ones without scars on their faces were the first man who introduced himself, Deveraux, and the one who was called Knight.
Drake’s fingers curled around her wrist and pulled her aside. His eyes narrowed on her, dark and unamused. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you going to release me?”
“No.”
Very well, then. Strangely, she was not afraid. There was a flutter of trepidation, certainly, but it had little to do with these men or their fearsome expressions. Rather, though she would never confess it aloud, they struck her as a collection of unexpectedly soft-hearted fellows. Not that she believed them incapable of extreme violence, but not a single instinct of danger stirred in their presence. And itwouldhave stirred the moment she stepped inside and they all turned their eyes on her.
Years of living under the thumb of her brother had taught her to hone this sense.
Her gaze dropped to his hand. Blazes, just looking at them, she could feel them kneading—
Absolutely not, Violet. Compose yourself!
Her gaze lifted back to his, those dark pools boring into her.
One single brow of his arched.
She lifted her chin. “Didn’t you wish to meet up?”
“Ah, so this is your rebellion, then?” he correctly guessed. “Your move?”
“Of course,” Violet retorted. “I’m not the best at chess, but I do have a bold play or two.”
His lips lifted, mocking. “I have a whole book.”
“I’m sure you do.” She crossed her arms, unmoved. “I still don’t know why we are meeting.”
