Page 52 of The Hood and his Thief

Within minutes of collapsing in the tent where the Merry Men had performed before, the man reappeared with the necessary supplies.

Ansel thanked him and instructed. “Send a message to Little John. Tell him we’re here and that I need to talk to him.”

The man spared Rhosyn one long glance, tinged with curiosity, before backing out the entrance, letting the flap that would be tied open during the Circus’s performing hours fall shut behind him.

With a sigh, Ansel sat down heavily on the edge of the stage. Now that they were alone, some of the persona that reminded her of Nate slipped away, revealing a man as tired as Rhosyn so often felt.

She sat down more gingerly next to him, extending her injured leg so as not to jostle it too much and dig the glass in farther. As it was, the shard didn’t seem to be too deep. She let it be for just a second, limbs turning leaden as she finally relieved them of the burden of her weight. Her eyes fluttered shut, the sensations in her body—from the stinging in her calf to the throbbing on the back of her head that was sure to form a knot where it had collided with the wall—washed over her and carried her thoughts away in their current.

“Let me get this soot off myself, and then I’ll help you with your leg.” Ansel’s voice interrupted her after a moment of quiet.

Rhosyn nodded, keeping her eyes shut. The air stirred, signaling that Ansel had stood, and his footsteps retreated towards the curtain separating the performing area from the backstage. After a minute, muffled splashing signaled to Rhosyn he was using the basin of water, supplied by his man, to wash up.

Finally, her eyes drifted open and she returned her awareness to what needed to be done. She crossed her injured leg over her knee, letting her see the back of her calf. Thankfully, the piece of glass that pierced the meat of the muscle still had a significant piece sticking out she could use to remove it. No need for tweezers.

She gritted her teeth, knowing there was nothing for it. Pinching the shard between her thumb and forefinger, she yanked. Her hiss of pain nearly drowned out the quiet squelch as it pulled free of her skin. She let it fall on the stage next to her, glad to be free of the twinge of sharp edges every time she moved.

Now that her pants were no longer pinned to her leg, she rolled them up to better inspect and clean the wound, shoving the cuffs all the way up to her knee. As she suspected, the wound was shallow, and most of the pain had come from having the glass still embedded in her leg.

She reached for the bandages and small glass jar the man had provided, but her hand was knocked away as familiar callused fingers beat her to it.

“Let me help you with that.”

Rhosyn had been too distracted with removing the glass to hear Ansel reemerge from behind the curtains. He knelt down before her and held out a hand expectantly.

The sight made Rhosyn’s heart flutter. He had changed out of his soiled shirt, the new one slightly too big and threatening to slip off his shoulder, revealing the inviting chest Rhosyn had burrowed into the morning before—how had so much happened in twenty-four hours? His hair was slightly damp around the edges, as if he had dunked his face in the basin to try to get the soot off, and now a longer strand clung to his high cheekbone.

He raised a single brow in question at Rhosyn’s hesitation. The action drew attention to a black smudge he had missed on his forehead. Her fingers itched to rub it away.

Instead, she leaned back on her elbows and placed her ankle in his outstretched hand. He set to dabbing the skin around the cut, and as he did, the fingers holding her ankle rubbed back and forth soothingly. Rhosyn wasn’t sure if he even knew he was doing it, but she could scarcely think of anything else as he moved on to cleaning any debris from inside the wound.

She shifted, the movement causing the papers in her shirt to crinkle. The sound provided a welcome distraction from the warmth seeping up her chest to her face. Pulling them out, Rhosyn waved them at Ansel.

“These are yours, as promised.”

His eyes flicked up from his task, and the concentrated furrow between his brow deepened into a true frown.

“What do you think about what we found in those contracts?” he asked.

“It…doesn’t look good,” Rhosyn admitted, wrinkling her nose.

“With that number of Talented at his beck and call, with those abilities, he could do some serious damage,” Ansel agreed.

Rhosyn’s stomach churned. While Mr. Gower had more polish to him than the powerful gangsters who lorded over the underworld, something about this setup smelled the same as when the Wolves collected Talented for their illegal fighting rings. Mr. Gower was clearly reaching for power, but how he would go about getting it, Rhosyn couldn’t be sure yet.

“What do you think we should do?” Ansel asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Rhosyn frowned. “And why would you want the opinion of an officer of the Royal Police—and your hostage at that?”

Ansel’s fingers stopped moving on her ankle, tightening so the pads of his fingers dug into the soft flesh on the inner part of her foot. She suppressed a shiver.

“I thought we might have moved past that, after the night we’ve just shared.” Ansel bit the words out, as if saying them frustrated him.

The words hit Rhosyn in the chest, and she slumped. It was a hope she had indulged in too, although guiltily. But the fact that they had each saved each other tonight—even made a good team—didn’t change the truth of their situation.

“I may be a police officer, and you might be a gangster I’m trying to arrest,” Rhosyn started slowly, and Ansel’s frown deepened. “But maybe we don’t have to be enemies. Maybe we can just be…professional rivals.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Ansel’s dismissal came so quickly that it stung as tangibly as a slap across the face.