Page 190 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Dark hair arranged in careful waves. Wine-red silks. Velvet coat immaculate. Boots polished to a mirror sheen. Elegance honed into predatory flair. “Duchess,” he said, dipping into a shallow bow without lowering his dark eyes. “Fortune favors me.”

“Lord Sabine,” she greeted politely, though her pulse faltered. Already angling to pass, “Excuse me, I am expected.” If he thought her absence would be noticed, she thought, perhaps he would let her go without a fuss.

Sabine shifted just enough to remain before her without quite seeming to block the path. He lowered his voice as his smile spread. “I rarely see you unattended. We should make use of such a moment.” He was certainly not asking. “I promise you shall not be delayed too long.”

He stepped closer, guiding her back toward the wall with deceptive ease.

Her spine met stone.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing the air near her cheek.

“No,” Kora gasped, fear tightening her throat.

Sabine lowered his head, mustache hovering close enough that she could feel his breath.

Anger and the familiar hum rose inside Kora like a tide. She shoved him, catching his wrist and forcing it away, surprising even herself with the strength behind the movement. The hum within her flared, a scorching heat in her veins. Her head began to spin.

Sabine staggered back with a sharp cry. His eyes widened as his gaze dropped to his wrist. A bruise spread beneath the skin, blooming rapidly in jagged veins. “You broke…” His expression shifted from shock to fury. “You little— How dare you?”

Kora gasped. She had not gripped him hard enough to leave such a mark.

Without another thought, she fled down the corridor, skirts tangling at her ankles, slippers sliding across polished stone. Her pulse throbbed in her fingertips. Her chest ached with terror.

Kora slammed the door of the derWhitte apartments, pressed her back against it, and slid to the ground. As her mind sorted through the enormity of what she had heard—what she had just experienced—she faintly registered warmth sliding over her lip.

She pressed a finger to her nose. When she withdrew it, she found it covered with blood, the color of ivy in autumn rain.

Chapter 86

Isander

Duncan was, yet again, pacing the drawing room.

“Duncan,” Isander said quietly from where he sat by the hearth, tracking his restless path the way one might track a sparking fuse. He had seen Duncan hollowed by grief, sharpened by fury, and worn thin by exhaustion. Had stood beside him through all of it without flinching. Now he watched with wary uncertainty, not fully recognizing the man before him.

Duncan did not hear him.

“Duncan,” Isander repeated, this time threading command into his tone.

Duncan looked over his shoulder. His expression remained unfocused, thoughts clearly still racing ahead of him, despite looking at Isander.

“You’ll wear a trench through the floor,” Isander said, nodding toward an empty chair. “Sit down before you make yourself worse.”

“Where is he?” Duncan muttered. “Merrick should have returned by now.”

Isander blew out a breath. “Why has this morning set you on edge? He saw her just yesterday. I doubt much has changed overnight.”

“I cannot bear that she is in there,” Duncan said through his teeth. “Locked inside with traitors and a murderer, and I am here doing nothing.” He cut a frustrated hand through the air. “Cursed moons, I am pacing my own house like a tethered hound.”

Before Isander could attempt another reassurance, a shadow slipped through the open window as fluidly as wind. He surged to his feet, hand flying to his sword. Duncan reached for his own blade in the same breath. Despite being expected, the man still managed to arrive like a thief drawn from legend, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Truly,” Merrick said dryly, “I am beginning to worry about your lack of spatial awareness. If I had come to kill you, you would both be dead twice over.”

“Merrick,” Duncan breathed, sheathing his sword with a snap that betrayed more relief than irritation. “One day you might consider announcing yourself like a normal man.”

“And surrender the rare pleasure of watching the Duke of Lemierre and his formidable Captain startle like green recruits?” Merrick clicked his tongue. “I think not.”

Isander lowered his blade but not his irritation, muttering something under his breath that was anything but complimentary. Merrick’s grin widened as he crossed the room and helped himself to an apple from the bowl on the table with the entitlement of someone who had been pilfering derWhitte kitchens since boyhood.