“Oh, do not fool yourself,” she said softly. “You are the worst sort of criminal. You hide behind the authority your title provides, but strip you of that, and you are even less than dust.”
His fists clenched. “Take care, Evangeline. My patience is already bare thread.”
Blazes. How she hated that name. “I am not Evangeline any longer,” she said, and the full truth of that settled inside her like something finally coming to rest. “I am Violet now.”
Reginald regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his mouth curved again, not into a sinister or even humorless smile this time, but something colder. “We have lingered long enough. I did not come merely to reminisce.”
Her pulse quickened. “Then why are you here?”
“Why, to present you with a wedding gift.”
Right. Percival had mentioned a wedding gift. A sense of foreboding slid through her.
“Come,” Reginald said, turning toward the door. “I shall escort you.”
“No.” Violet lifted her chin. “I will not leave with you.”
He arched a brow, his smile remaining in place. “Are you quite sure?”
She stilled. “I am.”
Reginald studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “Do you not wish to see your lover again?”
What?
Drake was her wedding gift?
The creeping dread inside her sharpened into something far worse. She searched Reginald’s face for mockery, for exaggeration, for any sign this was merely another attempt at manipulation. She found none. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “What have you done to him?”
“Nothing,” Reginald replied smoothly. “Yet.”
She took an involuntary step toward him. “If you have harmed him—”
“You will do what?” he interrupted. “Glare at me? Denounce me?” His gaze hardened. “How has that served you so far?” His eyes flicked, briefly, toward the door behind him, and he let out a low whistle.
Four men came up behind them.
“You can come willingly, or you will be dragged. Either way works for me.”
Violet fortified herself. Whatever lay beyond that door, she knew one thing with terrible certainty. If Drake lived, she would walk into hell itself to reach him.
Shewouldescape. She would not let them win.
*
Drake sat forwardon the only chair in the room, forearms braced on his thighs, head bowed. The throb behind his eyes would not allow him to lift it for long.
He felt like utter shite.
Outside the door, the roar of the crowd surged and fell in waves. Shouts. Laughter. The wet sound of fists finding flesh. A fight was already underway, then. A lesser one. A prelude. It would not be long now before they came for him.
Good.
The waiting was worse than the blows. Pain was honest. It declared itself and demanded an answer in kind. Waiting offered nothing. No target, no leverage, only the slow erosion of readiness and state of mind, which was probably what these fools were aiming for. They wanted him to doubt his strength. His own instincts.
Drake shifted with a grimace, testing his balance as he rose. The world tipped immediately, swaying hard enough that he had to plant a hand against the wall. The room lurched, then steadied, though the ache in his skull flared in protest.
Damn it.
