Page 122 of Devil in Her Details

The bloody hell . . . “Then where the devil is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what are we doing in London? Christ, this was a trick, wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“No?” Talking to Saint was a bloody practice of patience itself at times. You could master the virtue in a day if you didn’t have other devils riding your coattails.

“You needed to come, so we came. Also,” Saint’s dark eyes met his, “we’ll pick up Deveraux’s trail. There is a mission.”

Dagger turned back to the window, clenching his jaw.

Trail his arse.

He’d been bloody tricked.

The townhouse was exactly what he’d expected. Tall. Pale-stoned. A glossy blue door with a brass knocker polished to within an inch of its life. The kind of house that had a dozen servants whose sole purpose was polishing things.

She was in there.

One glimpse, he reminded himself. See that she’s well. Let her go.

“Ironic,” Dagger muttered, “how you are the one here with me given what you said to her.” A low blow. His brother wasn’t the only one at fault that day.

“That’s exactly why.”

Dagger scoffed. “Feeling guilty.”

“No.”

Well, hell. His gaze drifted from one window to the next. “Then what’s this if not guilt? A flare of conscience?”

“She made a choice. Maybe she makes a different one now.”

Dagger sneered. “Reaper got to you, didn’t he?”

“He has a point.”

That bloody shite. “You know he’s made it a mission to see all his brothers wed and happy. Be careful you’re not next.”

Saint said nothing.

The glossy blue door opened.

Dagger sat up, plastering himself against the window.

A man emerged. Tall, well-dressed, and with a very beautiful Lilly on his arm. Hell’s bells. She was a sight. Such a damn vision for his tired eyes. He drank in her face, her whole being, like a starved man. A feeling he was throbbingly familiar with. And something in his chest that had been dying since she’d left exploded back with life.

Just at the sight of her.

She was wearing black for some reason. Had someone died? But her expression was softer than grieving, if tired. Her stride was the same as always, her chin lifted high. Her eyes were probably sparking, too. The madness pressing at the edges of his head eased, like a fist unclenching one finger at a time.

She was all right.

Good. Fine. That was the point of this entire outing.

His gaze moved to the man beside her, and Dagger face darkened. “Who the bloody hell is that?” And why did she have her arm looped through the man’s? She’d never looped her arm through his.