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“No wonder you were so determined to fight your feelings for me. Love is a daunting challenge, especially for a man who believes he has no depth of emotion—a man who never fails. Success would be far from guaranteed. That's unnerving, and risky.”
Royce's knuckles caressed her cheek. “It was worth the risk.”
“The risk is over,” she murmured. “You've triumphed yet again.”
“This time it was pure luck.” His jaw tightened. “With my next challenge, it won't be.”
Breanna knew just what path his thoughts had taken.
“Royce—”
“I'm not going to do anything stupid,” he assured her, his tone as rigid as his jaw. “But I'm also not going to lose. Not this time. The stakes are too high. I'm going to figure out who he is. And then I'm going to kill him.”
An urgent knock at the door brought their conversation to an abrupt halt. “Lord Royce?”
Breanna blanched. “It's Wells. He sounds upset.”
She was across the room before Royce, yanking open the door. “Wells? It's not Stacie, is it?”
The butler shook his head, far too preoccupied to worry about the impropriety of Breanna being alone in her room with Royce. “Miss Stacie is froe. Another box just arrived. It's downstairs.”
Royce took Breanna's arm. “Let's go.”
The box was small, the size of a book, and addressed, as always, to Breanna.
Stacie and Damen were waiting in the hallway, and the five of them crowded into the sitting room, where Royce pulled the drapes closed before nodding for Breanna to unwrap the package.
She did so in a sort of numbed state, peeling back the paper to lift out a porcelain figure. It depicted the same two women as the previous statue, only this time they were sitting side-by-side on a sofa. Across their laps was a pale blue quilt, and their hands were poised, preparing to sew on some lacy trim.
Crimson paint had been slashed across the quilt and the lace, staining both a sickly shade of red.
More blood.
This time the blood led to the women's hands. Instantly, Breanna sew why.
Their right hands had been mutilated, the index finger of each broken off, saturated with red paint.
A note lay beside the statue, penned in the same bold, defined hand as always.
I can feel your terror. It makes my vengeance complete. I'm here, Lady Breanna. My pistol is aimed at your cousin's heart. Sheldrake can't save her. Nor can Chadwick save you. His reconnaissance is inferior. There's no time. A bullet takes only seconds.
Succumb to your fate. The battle is lost.
My finger... your life.
23
Hibbert waited until he'd ushered Emma into his room at the inn.
Then, he told her everything.
For a long moment afterward, she stared at him in disbelief. Then, she broke down, harsh sobs racking her body as she absorbed the realization that her nightmare was at an end. She wrapped her arms around herself, tears coursing down her cheeks as she wept.
“Come. Sit down.” Hibbert led her to a chair, handing her his handkerchief and laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head, battling for her sobs to subside. “Forgive me,” she choked out. “I just never thought... She said you were buying me. She warned me that if I breathed a word of the truth, she'd find me and—”
“You don't need to explain, and certainly not to apologize. I'm just grateful I got here in time. Lord Royc
