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Or maybe he'd stay there, let her talk, let her remind him of all the practical reasons why a proper match with Constance Sterling made more sense than whatever complicated thing I imagined was developing between us.

My boots clicked against cobblestones as I walked, the sound too loud in the quiet street. Gas lamps cast pools of yellow light, but the spaces between them were dark. Empty.

I should have waited.

The thought came too late.

At the corner, I heard them before I saw them.

Laughter.

Low, male. Slurred at the edges.

Two silhouettes stepped out of the mist—tall, broad-shouldered, familiar in the way danger always is. One leaned against the iron fence of a boarding house, the other shifted to block the narrow walk ahead.

“Well, would you look at that,” the taller one drawled, voice thick with drink and something meaner. “A red-haired bit of muslin, strutting about like she owns the night. Tell me, love, how much for a smile like that?”

I stopped. Turned. Let them see the flat contempt in my eyes.

The tall man flicked ash from his cigarette, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. His companion watched me the way men watch foxes before unleashing the hounds—certain the outcome is already written.

“Move along,” I said. “Before a constable sees you.”

“Who’s gonna care?” the first one said, flicking his cigarette to the ground. “You think the constables give a damn about a stray little fancy girl?”

He grabbed a fistful of my cape, yanking me close. Sour breath. Fingers diving for my hair.

“Wonder if your cunt has the same pretty red hair,” he muttered. “Let’s find out.”

I drove my knee up hard, aiming for his groin. It wasn't graceful, but it landed. He gasped and doubled over, swearing.

The second man lunged. I turned to run, but he caught my arm and flung me into the wall. Stone slammed into my shoulder, pain blooming white-hot.

Before I could right myself, he was on me. Rough hands grabbed at my front, yanking at the neckline of my dress. Fabric tore with a sickening rip. Cold air hit my skin.

My chest was exposed to the night, to him, to the open street.

Terror seized my throat.

“Don’t—” My voice fractured.

“Feisty little tart.” He pinned me by the collarbone, hand pressing hard enough to bruise.

I kicked, thrashed, clawed. But he was stronger, heavier, and my struggles only fed his grin.

And then⁠—

He was gone.

Torn away so fast the air snapped. His boots scraped stone as he hit the ground.

I blinked, gasping.

August.

He wasn't a blur. He was a force. Cold, precise, terrifying.

No warning. No words.