Breathing hard, Lark leaned over the basin of water and splashed her face with it. Her hands shook so badly she could barely control them enough to wipe the water from her face.

All she could see were those tattoos.

The Firebird. The cross. The thorns. There ought to be a sun there too, but she couldn't remember if she'd seen a hint of its golden rays beneath his shirt. The second he rolled his sleeve up, the world had started sucking at her, until all she could see was those tattoos.

If he was Dmitri Grigoriev, the marque du sang should have been on his back. But he would have shown it if it was, wouldn't he? Why would a man have the individual elements of the Grigoriev family crest tattooed on his arms?

Especially a man who’d had dealings with Balfour—Sergey's ally—in the past.

What were the odds? What did it mean?

A swift rap came at her door.

Lark's heart nearly burst out of her chest. She couldn't let anyone see her like this. Grabbing a towel, she wiped her face and pinched her cheeks, but the world was still spinning around her.

A second knock came.

"Who is it?" she called.

"I wanted to see how you were feeling."

Him.

The heat rushed out of her face. No. No, this wasn't happening.

Lark cracked the door open an inch. "What do you want?"

Obsidian leaned one hand against the doorframe, practically dwarfing her. He was taller than Charlie, and from the little she'd seen when he removed his shirt, cut lean with muscle. The other Rogues looked dangerous, but this one looked like a survivor, from the ice-cold eyes that gave nothing away when he looked at a person, to the faint scar above his lip.

"May I come in?" he asked, a hint of silky menace in his voice.

It wasn't a question.

"I was going to sit down. My... head aches."

"It will only take a moment."

Lark silently held the door open for him, tension crawling down her spine as he sauntered into the wash chambers.

"You know what these mean, don't you?" Obsidian murmured, tugging his sleeve up and staring down at his tattoos.

Despite the menace she suddenly felt, she glanced around the suite and swiftly shut the door. "You shouldn't show those tattoos here in Russia."

"Why?"

All her lies were coming home to roost. What the hell was she going to tell him? They already suspected her of knowing more than she should.

"Because they are the marque du sang of the Prince of Tsaritsyn and his House." A twist of unease flickered though her. "Peter the Great brought the concept to Russia from France many years ago, before the French humanists guillotined their blue bloods. Only those of the direct Grigoriev bloodline are allowed to wear the Grigoriev marque. Each member of the Blood is marked with the family's coat of arms at the age of five, to show they belong to the family bloodline. To wear the marque without belonging to the family is forbidden. If anyone saw these, they would kill you."

"And you know this how?"

"There was an old Russian exile who lived near us. He used to tell me stories." She made her mouth twist ruefully. The best lies were formed with a little bit of truth. "Once he started, you could barely get him to stop."

This is your heritage, Irinka. Remember it, Tin Man had signed.

Obsidian dragged a footstool toward her and sat down, his hands clasped between his knees, his sleeves deliberately rolled up. "My name is Dmitri. I thought my surname was Zhukov, but that also could have been an alias I was given for a mission. I don't know. I want to know who I am."

She had a sudden brief flashback of a tall, serious boy with pale brown hair. The last time she'd seen him, Dima had been on the verge of growing a mustache, a thin, scraggly thing she'd teased him about.

She sat very still, her world shattering into little pieces around her, and then abruptly shook her head. "It's impossible. The entire Grigoriev line was murdered fifteen years ago by their cousin, Sergey Mikhailovich Grigoriev. I don't think any of them survived."

Except for the stranger in the tower, but she didn't know who he was.

All she had was suspicion.

Obsidian's gaze locked on her. "That's not the sort of thing that is common knowledge."

"There were witnesses. It is spoken of among the bratstvo bezmolvnogo. My friend—the exile—he was one of the Brotherhood of the Silent."

"Is he still alive?"

"No."

"Do you have proof?"

"No."

Obsidian scrubbed at his mouth. "What you're saying is very dangerous."

"I know. Sergey cut their throats and burned Grigoriev Palace to the ground. And then he blamed it on the Dorontsovs and sued for peace." She met his eyes. "It should make killing him easier."

"I don't need many excuses." His eyes grew heavy-lidded. "Gemma said your grasp of Russian is better than expected."

Suspicion echoed in every word. She'd been careless, but how could she not have been? She'd made one mistake and now she was scrambling.

Lark pushed past him, wrapping her arms around her middle. Never speak your name, Irinka. Never tell anyone who you are. As if summoned, Tin Man's ghost filled her head, making her swallow hard.

This was becoming so hard. First Charlie, and now Obsidian....

She didn't know what to do.

"The man I knew didn't just live near me. He took me in off the streets and raised me. He was highly placed within the bratstvo bezmolvnogo and fled Russia many years ago," she told him carefully. "It wasn't safe anymore. He knew too much. He never wanted to come back here. It's dangerous for me to know so much, so I pretend I don't."

"And you don't think this seems suspicious? You just happened to join this mission?"

"I came here for Charlie," she snapped, turning on him. "I knew what this world was like and he doesn't! I couldn't just let him walk in here blindly. I don't care about your duke. I don't care about Balfour. I just want to make sure Charlie survives. And he asked me. I'd never heard of any of you before this."

"That explains why you speak Russian so well."

"Please." She captured his sleeve. "Please don't tell anyone."

"Gemma has to know."

She gave a faint nod. "I also speak the sign language of the Brotherhood of the Silent. They're everywhere. They might know more than we do."

He looked at her as if he still wasn't entirely certain whether he trusted her or not.

Lark reached out hesitantly, pushing his sleeve further up his arm. "Do you have these tattoos on your back?"

He shook his head. "Only scars. I was burned in a fire five years ago, and some of the wounds didn't heal properly."

Lark's shoulders slumped a little. "If you were a Grigoriev, then your back would show the Grigoriev marque. These symbols all welded together in a gorgeous emblem. Without them...."

Obsidian flexed his fist, making the muscle in his arm flex. "Without them, I cannot be a Grigoriev. I know."

She saw the flicker of emotion cross his face, as if he hadn't realized how badly he'd wanted it until that moment.

"Without them, you cannot be a Grigoriev," she repeated, a secret little hope she hadn't known she'd felt, dying a sudden death inside her.

The door to Charlie's bedchambers opened and a figure slipped inside.

Instantly, his hand curled around the knife beneath his pillow, but other than that, he didn't move. Just lay there, flat on his stomach, listening intently. Gemma and the others hadn't had need of him that night, so he'd returned to the diplomat's house and was trying to catch up on the sleep he'd missed during the day.

Soft footsteps whispered over the parquetry floors and his muscles tensed.

Any second now....

"Charlie?" Lark whispered.

His eyes blinked open.

What the hell was she doing in here?

"Jesus Christ," he said, letting go of the knife and rolling onto his hip. "Are you trying to give me a heart seizure? We're in Russia! It's the middle of the night! I thought you were an assassin...."

His tirade paused as he took in her ravaged expression. "What's wrong?"

Lark bit her lip. "I can't sleep. Can I...?"

She gestured to the covers of his bed.

Apparently it was let's torture Charlie night. He almost groaned.

But there was something achingly vulnerable in her eyes. She'd never have let him see it if she wasn't desperately in need of company. Lark always kept her emotions in check. Sometimes she was like a bloody vault, but he'd known her for so long, it was as though only he held the code to get in.

Charlie dragged the edge of the covers up and gestured for her to join him.

You can do this.

He wore his nightshirt—small restraint that was against the opportunistic surge of blood through his groin—and she was wearing her nightgown. He tried not to notice how thin it was, and how the moonlight spilled through the crack in the curtains. They'd done this a thousand times in the past, whispering secrets in each other's ears, or staging pillow fights. Lark had a mean elbow on her, and he'd scored more than one black eye from their playful tussles.

But that was then.

This was now.

She was no longer just his friend.

And as she snuggled into the mattress beside him, barely two inches between them, he realized things could never be the way they used to be ever again.

And it was torture, because he himself had set the terms between them. Nothing further would happen between them, unless she met him in the middle.

"We used to do this as children," Lark admitted, dragging the covers up to her chin.

He turned his head to look at her. "We're not children anymore."

Her dark eyes were shadows in the night. No. They weren't. He could read it in her expression, and the soft set of her lips.

"How are you feeling?" She'd practically fled to her room when they returned, missing dinner. He'd paused outside her bedchambers on the way to his own, his hand poised to knock, but for some reason he'd hesitated.

"Fine."

Far from it, said her tone.

"Can't sleep?"

"My feet are cold," she whispered.

It was much more than that. But he flashed her a smile, trying to lure one from her as he sought to gauge what she was thinking. "If you so much as inch those little icicles anywhere near me, it will be war."

Lark smiled, and his heart gave a furious squeeze at the sight of it. "As I recall, I always used to win."

"Perhaps I always used to let you."

"Let me?" she snorted, rolling onto her side, her eyes glittering dangerously.

"Let you," he repeated. "Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong? Or are we going to spend half the night arguing about who won?"

Lark wet her lips.

The humor in her eyes died.

And he desperately wanted to bring it back, because this was the closest she'd let him be in years, but this wasn't about him. Something was hurting her. And curse him for a besotted idiot, but he'd do anything to make it better.

"Who do I have to kill?" he whispered.

"No one."

"I daresay I don't like my chances, but I'll even take on Obsidian if he somehow hurt you. It would be a dramatic death. You can weep over my grave. Or... you could just tell me the truth. Not as much fun, of course, but I'll bear the sacrifice."

"Obsidian and I spoke earlier. He told me he doesn't have the marque du sang of the Grigoriev family," she said in a very small voice.

Resting on his side, Charlie reached out and toyed with a strand of her unbound hair. "I think he hopes he's a Grigoriev, more than he believes it. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to forget all trace of myself. My family."

"I can," she whispered.

He frowned at her. He'd barely heard the words. "But you had Tin Man. And us. And—"

"Charlie." She captured his hand in hers, twining her fingers through his. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.

He'd only ever asked her about her mother once.

She died, Lark had told him in the type of voice that shut down any further questions.

"Can you keep a secret?" The words tumbled from her lips in a rush.

"Are you trying to insult me? Who spent a week locked in his room when someone added an invisible dye Honoria had been testing to Blade's shaving cream? Even though I wasn't even in the bloody house when it mysteriously happened?"

She didn't even counter with all the times she'd taken the blame for things he'd done, which told him this was deadly serious.

"There's... there's something I need to show you."

She sat up, the covers spilling into her lap, and the first thing he noticed was the shadow of her nipples beneath the fine lawn of her nightgown.

But you are not going to look at that.

Because she clearly needed his support right now, not to have him leering at her.

He tore his gaze to hers. "What?"

Lark started to undo the buttons on her nightgown.

Holy blood and ashes. Charlie tensed. Good intentions started going out the window. Be her friend. She needs a friend right now. But she was unbuttoning her nightgown all the way down, and suddenly he didn't know what the hell her intentions were.

"I thought this was a bad idea?" he asked hoarsely.

Lark bent her head forward, exposing her bare nape. Suddenly there wasn't enough moonlight in the world.

"Tin Man would roll over in his grave if he knew I was showing you this," Lark whispered. "But I'm so tired of being the only one who knows this secret. I'm so tired of being alone."

"Hey." He rubbed her upper arm.

Lark drew her hair forward, over her shoulder. The heavy mass looked like a spill of black ink in the night, though in the sunlight it was a contradiction of browns and golds and even coppery strands. He'd spent years dreaming of running his fingers through it and—

Charlie forced himself to clear his throat. "What am I meant to be looking at?"

She let her nightgown fall halfway down her back and arms, holding the front of it to her breasts. That distracted him, but then he caught a glimpse of what was painted across her back.

All his sexual impulses fled, leaving only the sudden pounding of his heart. Reaching out, he turned her to the glint of moonlight so he could see better.

Her back was covered in an enormous sprawl of a tattoo. He'd known something was there. How could he not, growing up with her as he had?

But Lark had always kept her back covered.

Indeed, she'd been strangely protective of glimpses of her skin, always wearing dark shirts when the pair of them went swimming. Or yelling at him and grabbing her shirt to cover herself whenever he abruptly burst into her rooms as a child. He'd stopped doing that after she refused to speak to him for two weeks over it.

The only time he'd ever caught a glimpse of her tattoo had been when the rain stuck her shirt to her skin, or when he'd been trying to save her life in the courtyard of the Ivory Tower, as blood gushed from her pierced lungs.

Both times, he'd been too distracted to ask her about it.

And she'd been careful to keep her back faced away from him in the baths.

Reaching out, Charlie ran his fingertips across the ripple of color as his eyes slowly made out the images he was seeing. A Firebird rose from a flaring sun; thorny chains circled an ornate cross behind it, and heavy Cyrillic letters splayed in an arch above it all.

He'd seen these images before.

Painted on Obsidian's arms.

Blood and ashes. Charlie's blood ran cold even as he found himself shaking his head. "Lark." He could barely breathe the word. "What are you.... How?"

She had the marque du sang of the Grigoriev House on her back.

She glanced back over her bare shoulder, her dark lashes shuttering her eyes. "My name was Irina Konstantinovna Grigorieva."

He'd seen the file on Obsidian, and the family tree of the last members of the Grigoriev House.

Dmitri. Nikolai. Yekaterina. Irina. Evgeni.

They were Konstantin Grigoriev's children.

His breath caught. "Holy shit. You're Russian?"

Not only that, she was of the Blood.

Nobody at the Warren spoke of Lark's past. She'd arrived in Tin Man's arms when she was a young girl, and the mute man had never breathed a word of it.

There was some mention of Tin Man working in the mines somewhere, a suspicion probably earned by the wheeze of his iron lungs. Lark was either a niece or his daughter, though both of them refused to say anything on the topic when it was mentioned, and after a while it wasn't important.

Nobody knew where Lark truly came from, but that didn't matter anymore. Lark belonged to Tin Man. She was one of Blade's. She was family. That was all anyone needed to know.

And she'd never once breathed a word of her past.

Lark tugged her nightgown back into place and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her shins and resting her chin on top of her knees. "You wanted to know what I was hiding. I was hiding everything. My name is Irina," she repeated, squeezing her eyes shut as if just saying it again overwhelmed her. "My birthday isn't in September. It's in May. You think I'm ten months younger than you, but the truth is, I'm almost two years older. We hid everything. My age, my gender, my birthdate, my name. I was small enough to pull it off, and English wasn't my first language, so it made me seem a little less precocious."

"You're older than me?"

She opened her eyes. "Does it matter?"

"No. I just...." His head spun. "How on earth did you bite your tongue when I spent years lording my age over you as the closing matter in all our arguments?"

"I had to," she whispered.

And suddenly reality penetrated. This wasn't the sort of secret one kept for fun. It had real consequences. "Tell me everything."

"Tin Man's real name was Yuri Saginov," she whispered. "He was a nobleman's fourth son, and became part of the failed revolution that rose against the Blood twenty years ago.

"They cut out his tongue as punishment, the way they did to all the others within the revolution. Those that weren't in charge, at least. They took one person out of every ten of the revolutionaries, tortured them and cut their tongues out, and then crucified the rest. The Blood wanted them to be a reminder of the price of failure. Afterwards, Yuri was gifted to my father as a serf.

"He created the Brotherhood of the Silent," she said, her spine bowed, as if she could barely stand to speak of this. "The Blood tried to take their voices to make them powerless, but Tin Man learned how to speak with his hands so they could still communicate. He gave them hope, and rumors started whispering through the Blood that the revolution was rising again."

"Holy shit," he repeated.

"He rescued me. I woke one night to find the palace burning," she said softly. "I thought it was the Brotherhood coming for us—they were the bogeyman every little Russian aristocrat believed in—but it was worse. It was Sergey." Her breath shuddered through her. "Katya was nine, and I was almost seven, and Zhenya.... He was just a baby."

Charlie frowned in confusion before realizing she'd have known her siblings by their diminutives and not their full names.

"What happened to them?"

Lark's eyes hardened. "Sergey and his Chernyye Volki."

"Cherny what?"

"The Black Wolves. Originally, they were the nameless sons of lower class noblemen Sergey banded together. They protect him and carry out his dirty work. They’re thugs."

"The same ones we saw at Grigoriev Palace the other day."

No wonder she'd been so bloody distraught. Even entering the place was a nightmare for her.

"Yes. They howl," she whispered. "It was the first I knew we were under attack. Fire was flickering in the lower halls. Men wearing wolf head masks were running through the hallways, hunting the servants. I wanted to go to my mama so badly, but I was so frightened.

"So I climbed out the window. Papa was always lecturing me about climbing trees and the stable roofs, but it was probably the only thing that saved my life. I made my way to my mother's rooms and hid on the balcony outside her doors. I could see shadows inside the room, and hear my mother pleading for mercy...."

She fell silent, staring right through him as if she could see something else in that moment.

Charlie edged closer, slipping his hand into hers.

"They killed Katya first," she whispered. "And then Evgeni. I will never forget the sound my mother made. They wanted to save her for last. They wanted her to know all her children were dead, but they couldn't find me. And as my mother begged for them to kill her too, I saw the man who'd slit their throats take off his mask.

"It was Sergey. He was my cousin. My parents took him in when his own died, and raised him beneath our roof. They gave him everything and he betrayed them. It took me months to realize he’d arranged for the deaths of my father and my eldest brothers, Dmitri and Nikolai, on the same night. They were attending the opera with Papa when their carriage was attacked. I kept hoping word of them would come.... That it would be safe to return, but when the news reached us...."

She buried her face in her hands, and Charlie wrapped his arms around her, dragging her face against his chest. A blue blood couldn't shed tears, but he felt the angry sobs tear through her.

"Oh, Lark." He rocked her in his arms, clenching his eyes shut against her pain. "You're safe now. You're with me."

She looked up, rubbing at her reddened eyes. "I hate him. I hate him so much."

"How did you escape?"

"They'd set the palace on fire." Lark took a deep breath. "I had to run. I was crying so badly I could barely see, but I was so angry. I swore then that I would live, and I would kill Sergey one day. I escaped through the maze we used yesterday, and watched the palace burn as Sergey and his men rode away.

"That was where Yuri found me," she admitted. "He could see the tattoo on my back and knew I was of the Blood. I didn't realize he and my mother had known each other as children. I think he loved her, and he'd come for her the second he saw the flames licking at the manor. But it was too late for Mama.

"Yuri broke into the palace and carried her out. He tried to see to her wounds, but... she knew she was dying. She wasn't of the Blood. With her last words she begged him to get me out of the country. Away from Sergey, away from the uprising, away from the Brotherhood and the flames. Sergey would have killed me if he found me."

"So Yuri did," Lark whispered, staring through the wall. "He took me north through Finland. I was so frightened—of him, of everything that had happened—and I couldn't understand him. I couldn't understand what he was trying to say to me with his hands.

"We knew Sergey was hunting for us. Yuri couldn't speak, and his tongue.... If anyone was looking for us, they'd be able to track us the second they asked after a man with no tongue, so I had to take charge. I said he was my uncle, not right in the head, and Yuri played the part. I spoke a little French, a little English, very little German. Enough to get by.

"We stayed a couple of months in Denmark. Sometimes I'd cry," she whispered. "Yuri was so kind to me. He would pat my shoulder and rub my back, and he would try to make me understand what he was trying to say. That was how we came up with the letters." Lark took a deep breath. "I made a board of letters, and Yuri taught me what his silent language meant."

Holy blood and ashes. Charlie slowly lay back on his pillows, raking both hands through his hair.

Lark was.... No. Irina was.... She was a Grigoriev. A princess of the Blood. He simply couldn't put the two together.

"I liked Copenhagen. There was a little girl next door I played with. I almost forgot what it meant to look over my shoulder. We were there for almost three months before I caught a glimpse of one of Sergey's Chernyye Volki in the streets near our house. We had to leave in the middle of the night but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere they couldn't track us. Except for one place.

"We were in France for the rest of the year. It was staunchly humanist, so no blue blood would dare enter the country for fear of being executed. I cut all my hair off and became Jean, but we couldn't relax. And when the French started talking about war with Russia, we knew it was no longer safe for us.

"We were afraid they were still hunting for us, so when we landed in London we couldn't let ourselves be seen. We were hiding out in the East End. I'd taken to stealing to try and feed us, and Tin Man was searching for honest work, but nobody wanted to employ a mute.

"And that was where Blade caught us. We were in Whitechapel territory, and a band of slashers had backed us into a corner. Yuri was trying to protect me and they were taking their time, darting in and cutting him. And Blade saved us." Lark closed her eyes, as if she could see another place, another time. "He took us home to the Warren. It was the first time I'd been warm in months, and he and Tin Man talked well into the night, using me as their interpreter. By the time the sun rose, they'd struck a deal. Tin Man would work for Blade, and in return, we had protection."

All this time, and Blade had known?

He hadn't said a word?

Charlie wanted to punch something. How the hell had Blade let her come back here, knowing who she was? Knowing how dangerous this was?

"I ain't 'ere for you."

He hadn't been able to understand how Blade could leave his wife and daughter to journey to Russia, but it all made sense now. Russia was not only dangerous, but Lark's history was a maelstrom of terror.

Blade had made a promise to Tin Man, and when he'd died in Blade's service, he'd taken over Tin Man's mantle as Lark's protector.

"Whitechapel was the only place we could vanish," she said, resting her cheek against his chest. "Nobody dared come into the rookeries. So we vanished there, and I became Lark, and I didn't dare ever say my real name or where I came from. I stayed a boy, and Blade called Yuri 'Tin Man' and the name stuck. Neither of us ever breathed a word of what we'd fled from."

"Not even to Blade?"

Her lips pressed together. "I think Yuri eventually told him some of it. You don't understand though.... One wrong word spoken in the wrong place. A single whisper reaching the right ears.... Perhaps they gave up hunting for us, but perhaps they did not. They found us in Copenhagen, after all."

"Then why the hell did you come back?" he whispered hoarsely. Jesus. How could she even stand to be in this country? How could she dare? "Damn it, Lark. How will you be able to look Sergey in the eye? What if he recognizes you? Gemma said we're bound to encounter him at one of Balfour's little soirees."

Lark's eyes held shadows he was afraid he'd never understand. "I came back because I knew what you were walking into better than you did. Charlie, you gave me no choice. You wanted to steal from the most dangerous man in the most dangerous court in this world. "

He scraped a hand over his mouth. "You came for me? To protect me?"

A flush of color crawled up her throat and she looked away. "Yes. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

He voice hardened. "There's a very small part of me that wanted to see him again."

"Who?"

"Sergey."

A chill ran through him. Oh, hell no. He recognized that look in her eyes.

"Lark," he growled, "what are you planning?"

"I want to ruin him," she said, shoving her hands against his chest so that his hands broke from her shoulders. "I want to destroy him. I want to plunge my fucking knife through his black heart so he can never, ever hurt anyone again.

"He killed my brothers and my sister," she hissed. "He slit their throats while I watched, and he smiled. He tortured my mother to the brink of death. I was too young to do anything about it. Too frightened. But now I'm not. I've spent years learning how to fight. I've spent years dreaming of his face and what I'd do to him if I ever came across him again. I want to drive a knife into his heart and see the look in his eyes when I tell him who I am."

Bad. This was very, very bad.

"Lark, he's no less dangerous."

"I know." She turned away.

"And we're not here for revenge." Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he reached out hesitantly and caught her knee. "Our mission is to rescue the Duke of Malloryn. This is a dangerous country. We're out of our depths and getting out of here with our lives is—"

"I know! Do you think I, of all people, don't know how much danger we're in?"

Heat blazed in her eyes, and Charlie shut up. He couldn't quite take in the enormity of what she'd just told him, but some part of his brain started working. She didn't want him to fix the problem. She wasn't telling him this because she needed him to talk her out of trying to murder Sergey Grigoriev.

No. This had to be bringing up every bloody memory she owned of the past.

He knew how that felt.

Charlie reached out and drew her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. "All right."

"All right?" she whispered, tilting her face to his.

"Thank you for telling me." He swallowed the lump in his throat and rested his chin on top of her hair. "You shouldn't have to be alone through this."

As if the words soothed something within her, Lark slumped in his arms, her own threading around his neck. "I'm not going to kill him. I want to. But I know how dangerous it is."

Charlie turned his face into her hair, breathing in her floral soap. "Of course, we could just allow Obsidian to do it. Balfour already wants him to kill Sergey."

Lark stilled.

And there was the one thing she hadn't breathed a word about.

"Obsidian? Is he...?" Your brother?

Lark shook in his arms. "He has no marque du sang."

"Have you told him any of this?"

"No!" Lark shook her head desperately. "He can't be my brother. He doesn't look like us. He doesn't have the marque. What if this is just another of Balfour's tricks?"

Charlie squeezed her tighter. Sweet Jesus. Despite her denials, he could feel how much she wanted to believe. What would it be like to spend years alone, and finally discover you had family out there?

Lena and Honor drove him crazy at times—apparently it was the preordained role of sisters everywhere, according to Honor—but if anyone ever tried to take them away from him....

"So you're not going to tell him," he said slowly.

"I just want to wait a little longer. I want to make sure. I want to know what proof Balfour thinks he has."

He could understand that. "Fine. I won't say anything to the others."

Not unless it became apparent they needed to know.

They stayed locked together for God knew how long, until Lark finally drew back. Charlie dragged her down into the blankets, tugging on a strand of her hair. "Stay here with me tonight."

"I shouldn't," she whispered.

Again that invisible line between them.

Sometimes he hated being an adult.

"You're not going anywhere."Charlie hauled her back into the curve of his arms. "Nobody will notice. And just this once, I'll allow you to put those little icicles on me. I won't even complain about it too much. You know you want to stay here in my arms."

Lark burst into a startled laugh, but she didn't rub her feet against his. Instead, she let her head rest on the flex of his biceps as she traced little circles on his forearm. "Maybe. At least there's some use in you turning into this overgrown lout."

"I give great hugs?"

"They're quite adequate."

Silence fell.

"You know," she whispered, "I really did miss this."

Charlie grunted, shifting a little as a certain part of his anatomy made itself known. Now was most definitely not the time. "I know." He tucked his face into the crook of her neck. "Who else would let you steal half the bed?"

Lark poked him in the arm, but he smiled as she softened again.

"I thought you'd be angry I'd kept all of this from you," she whispered.

"No." He brushed a kiss against the back of her neck. "I understand why you did. And I'm a little relieved you trust me enough to tell me now."

She stroked his arm, as if to try to tell him more.

"Go to sleep, Lark. I'll protect you."

Nothing would ever hurt her again, if he had anything to do about it.