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She flicked it off her fingers and dropped it to the grass next to her legs.
Metal suddenly screeched and clanked, and a blasphemy rang out from under the carriage.
Fixing the axle must not be going well.
She glanced at Strider’s profile. The question that had been on her mind for days seared close to her tongue. He was talking about prostitutes already, so the question seemed natural at this point.
She cleared her throat. “The first time you killed someone—did you enjoy it?”
His look snapped to her and his eyebrows drew together into a harsh line across his brow. “Killing?”
She nodded.
For one miniscule second, his face looked pained before he looked away from her, his gaze locked onto the carriage. His voice dipped into a low rumble. “Of course not. I felt no power from it. The opposite. Every life I’ve snuffed out has taken something deep out of me—stolen it away. The last one just as harsh as the first one.”
Her chest tightened, the air squeezing out of her lungs. “How old were you the first time?”
His shoulders lifted. “Fifteen, sixteen—I’m not sure. Time moved differently in those days.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t want to know, Pen.”
“Or do you not want to remember?”
His head turned, his light brown eyes pinning her. “Probably both.”
Her look went downward between them. Telling her would be giving her something of himself and he wasn’t about to do that.
When was she going to understand that?
He wanted nothing to do with her and he wasn’t about to give her more than the bare minimum. What it took to get her from London to Bedfordshire and back to London, and then he would be done. She’d be cast out of his life once more.
It was so deeply ingrained in her to do so, but she needed to stop looking—asking for more from him. Stupid, every time she did it. Every time she set herself up for disappointment.
She wasn’t going to get anything from him and it was time she stopped trying.
{ Chapter 9 }
Strider looked at the Jacobson estate, his gut dropping.
It was sprawling, elegant. Pompous with its undulating weaves of tall, tightly trimmed evergreens in figure eights that led to the wide main entrance. Perfect grass. Perfect hedges. Perfect Portland stone facade on the straight and looming lines of the manor house, with four symmetrical levels of evenly spaced windows. Not much imagination with it, but perfectly proportioned, perfectly grand.
He’d never trusted perfect.
Perfect hid some of the worst evils.
His fingers tightened on an iron spindle in front of them, one thin rod of the long barrier betweenBaron Jacobson’s world and the real world.
Aristocrats were like that. Erecting tall iron fences to separate themselves. They thought it held them apart, kept them protected. But all the fences did was to create a false sense of security. There were always people looking in. Always people planning. People like Strider.
The spindles of an iron fence were no protection—they were a beacon to the masses. The fences drew them in, making them wonder, making them covet. Iron fences were dangerous.
Walls. Walls were much better. Solid barriers, be they stone or mortar or brick. High and thick. No one in. No one out.
The waning sunlight hit the top row of windows on the main house and reflected sharp light into his eyes.
They couldn’t call today, not at this hour and not properly cleaned from the trip.
