Chapter 5
After nearly twenty years spent on this miserable, cold earth, Cleopatra was capable of hating far more than she loved.
In fact, she could count on her two hands, and not even all the way up to the ten digits, what she loved. Or rather, who—the people whom she loved.
It was the same people who now sat in the spacious conveyance. Cleopatra looked from her unusually stoic eldest brother to a downcast Gertrude, and then to a seething Ophelia. With Reggie perched atop the carriage, there was but one missing from their ragtag bunch. Stephen had refused to accompany them to a bloody Black’s, as he’d always referred to that rival family.
“You’re a bloody bastard, you know that, Broderick?” Ophelia spat.
“It’s for the good of the group,” he said tightly, his icy tones the ones he used when doling out tasks and assignments inside the Devil’s Den. “You know that.” He looked pointedly about. “You all knew long ago what my intentions were. Why . . . Cleopatra even struck the terms with Black and his men,” he correctly reminded them.
“Because of you,” Ophelia snarled. “You insisted on introductions to Polite Society.”
Their brother tossed up his hands in exasperation. “What in blazes did you think the damned introductions were for?”
As brother and sister launched into an all-out attack, Cleopatra welcomed the focus to remain there and not on her. For the palpable tension in their exchange, it also offered a balm to Cleopatra’s restlessness. For all the fights and challenges that arose among their group, in the end, it had never resulted in a fist or slap or hateful words that oftentimes could be more painful than an actual physical blow. And I’m leaving it behind . . .
Because Broderick would not rest until his goals had been achieved. She’d known that the moment she’d gone to Niall Marksman and struck the agreement between them. Why, it was something she’d learned the moment the terror-filled boy, on the cusp of manhood, had entered their midst and challenged Mac Diggory on their behalf. When Broderick committed himself to something, nothing could alter him from that course. It had been that steely determination that had enabled them to rise to the level of greatness they had.
Where was the greatness in this? A ball of regret stuck in her throat, and she struggled to choke it back. It was a bloody goodbye from the only place she belonged, for a place she could never truly be part of.
“. . . I don’t care whether we have noble connections,” Ophelia screeched, making another appeal to their obstinate brother.
Cleopatra winced at that shrill cry. Ophelia still hadn’t truly discovered the depth of Broderick’s resolve in binding their family to the ton. She still hadn’t accepted what Cleopatra had long ago—Broderick’s single-mindedness in this endeavor.
Restless, Cleopatra cracked the curtains ever so slightly and stared out at her new home. She ran her gaze over the white stucco front of the Grosvenor Square residence.
“Home,” she mouthed, and a palpable loathing coated her tongue. This place would never be home. She’d but one, and as Stephen had accurately pointed out yesterday morn, it was one Cleopatra would never return to. Instead, she’d trade off all that and trust herself over to the Blacks. They’d been raised first as gang members on opposite ends of London, and then as hated rivals. Now her brother would trust those people to honor Marksman’s pledge? This is not forever . . . Only—the only thing to get her out of this prison would be shackles to a fancy toff. Her pulse pounded in her ears in a beat of panic. She lifted her gaze upward and caught the belligerent figure glaring at her.
Adair Thorne. At three inches past six feet, his gold-tinged brown hair pulled back in a queue at the base of his neck, he’d the look of a street tough, as out of place at that window as Cleopatra herself was in these streets. He propped his hands on his hips, emphasizing the gun on his person.
The sight of it brought her eyes closed and ushered in a deeper peace and calm.
“It should be me,” Gertrude said softly, and Cleopatra snapped her eyes open.
Dropping the curtain, Cleopatra faced her sister. “Don’t be silly.”
Her sister’s mouth was drawn so tight it drained the blood from a scar at the corner of her lips. “Why is it silly?” she demanded in uncharacteristically firm tones. “I’m the eldest.”
“Because . . .” What answer could Cleopatra give without insulting Gertrude? Even valuing truth and straightforwardness, as each of the Killorans did, in this instance Cleopatra’s mind shied away from the truth. She’d sooner cut herself than hurt her siblings. It was why she was here now. “I need to be here.”
“I should be protecting you,” Gertrude pressed. “And Fie and Stephen,” she added.
“You’re needed at home,” she finally said.
“I—”
“It is done,” Cleopatra swiftly interrupted, and before her sister could argue any further, she shot a hand up. That firm rap instantly cut across Broderick and Ophelia’s heated argument. The door was immediately opened, and ignoring the guard’s hand, Cleopatra hopped out. Her boots settled with a quiet thump on cobblestones cleaner than most beds and floors she’d known for the first years of her life.
At her back, she dimly registered her siblings joining her on the pavement and Reggie scrambling down from atop the carriage. Elegantly clad lords and ladies strolling down the street stared back at the Killorans like circus oddities had just been deposited outside Ryker Black’s residence. But then, that is precisely what they were to these people. People good enough to lose their fortunes to, but shameful enough to avoid for anything more than that. Cleopatra set her jaw, and when Lord Sanderson, a miserably clad dandy, took an extended look, she growled, “Ya’ve got a problem?”
Swallowing hard, the young man spun on his heel and sprinted off in the opposite direction.
“Bloody hell, Cleo,” her brother griped at her side. “The point is to catch a husband, not scare every lord out of London.”
She’d gladly scare them all the way to the Devil to be spared a future with one of those fops—if the end result would be different for her sisters.
“Come,” he murmured, holding out his elbow. “Let me—”
“Lead me into the enemy’s lair?” she snapped. These same people he’d taught her to hate, and now expected her to live with? “I don’t require an escort. I will do this.” And disapprove until she drew her last breath. “But I’ll be damned if you or any of my sisters are the one to usher me through that doorway.”
For the devil-may-care attitude he’d adopted and worn like a second skin through the years, the column of Broderick’s throat moved. He had some regret in asking Cleopatra to do this—nay—in expecting any of his sisters to. Good, the blighter could chew on the Devil’s trident for it.
More than half fearing all her confidence and strength would crack if she stole another look at her siblings, Cleopatra started forward. She kept her gaze trained on the open doorway, then stopped. Wheeling around, she marched back to her brother. She spoke in a low voice reserved for him. “When we met you, and you gave us names, I loved you for that.” At that time, she would have sooner slit her own throat than admit as much. Cleopatra searched her gaze over his unreadable face. “You gave us the names of queens.” A wad of emotion stuck in her throat, and she despised herself for that weakness. It had seen her beat by Mac Diggory too many times as a child until she’d learned to conceal that weakness. “Now I know it’s not because you saw girls of strength and power, as you said . . . but because you wanted to make us into something we’re not.”
“Cleo,” he said gruffly.
Cleopatra glowered him into silence. “Shut your bloody mouth,” she said, her voice raspy. “I’ll have this done in several months, and you’ll not expect my sisters to . . .” Marry. My God, I cannot even bring myself to spit that word out. “. . . do the same. Are we clear?”
“It is for the good of the group,” he repeated somberly, with a resolve that made her believe she’d merely imagined the flash of remorse she’d spied earlier. “If we have noble connections, we will never have to worry about losing all and living in the squalor we did.” He took her hands, squeezing. “Think of it, Cleo. We will be dependent upon no man.” As they’d been with Diggory.
Adair Thorne’s sister killing that blighter was one favor she’d be forever grateful to their rival gang for, but she would sooner slice her own throat than breathe that thanks aloud.
Cleopatra briefly squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want her siblings to be racked with the fear they’d once known, beholden to a bastard like Diggory. Didn’t want to suffer through the cold nights, with nothing but tattered garments to drive back the winter’s chill. As much as it pained her and she despised it, she knew Broderick was right. She had thought his plan was logical from the moment he’d laid it out years earlier. That did little to ease the panic and pain in her leaving her life behind, now.
Turning on her heel, she stalked forward, bag in hand, toward Black’s residence and his butler. By the glower on the graying, scarred stranger’s face, he was just another one of Black’s guards.
“Thank you,” Broderick called after her.
“Go to hell, Broderick,” she shot back, not breaking stride.
“Cleo?” Gertrude called out, her voice quavering.
Cleopatra damned her heart for wrenching and quickened her steps to enter the enemy’s lair. Grateful for the muslin cloak that shielded her actions from the army of waiting Blacks, Cleopatra burrowed inside the folds. Warily, she passed her gaze around the eclectic gathering: Black and his scarred, battle-marked brothers . . . and the smiling, innocent-eyed misses who stared warmly back.
Warmth. It was something Cleopatra had only ever known and been shown by her siblings.
“What are you doing here?” Adair Thorne snapped.
Cleopatra’s face went hot. Stiffening, she shot a go-to-hell glance over her shoulder to where the surly bastard stood.
“Do hush, Adair.” Favoring her brother-in-law with a glower, Black’s wife came over to greet Cleopatra, a question in her eyes.
“I came instead,” she said lamely, not offering details as to why she’d taken Gertrude’s place.
Lady Chatham smiled. “How lovely to have you back among us, Miss Killoran—”
Niall Marksman’s wife, the same woman Cleopatra had helped to freedom nearly a year earlier, interrupted. “Given you’ll be living among our family, I expect we should dispense with formalities? You may call me Diana, and this is my sister-in-law Penelope.” Black’s wife lifted her fingers in a cheerful little wave.
Mad. They are utterly mad, this lot. Cleopatra stole a glance about to Black’s gang and found her own pained consternation reflected back in their ruthless eyes. She tamped down a sigh. Who in blazes would have ventured that she, Cleopatra Killoran, member of the Devil’s Den, would ever have a moment of commiseration with Black and his men?
A footman came forward to help her with her cloak, and Cleopatra automatically shot a hand out, slapping his fingers for daring to touch any part of her—garments included. “Cleopatra,” she clipped out. “You may call me Cleopatra.” For whether she wished to be here or not, these were the people she’d be spending the remainder of her unwed days with.
“Splendid,” Penelope Black piped in. What reason did the woman have to be cheerful? “And I believe you know my husband. Please, you may call him Ryker—”
“No,” Cleopatra said sharply, glancing to the man her own family had called enemy for too many years to overcome.
An awkward pall descended. “Mr. Black, then,” Penelope suggested with the relentlessness of a starved dog with a bone.
And the staggering reality of being here . . . among Black and his kin . . . with the purpose of making a match among a world she would never belong to, cinched the airflow to her lungs. But the horror of horrors continued.
Penelope slipped her arm into Cleopatra’s. “We shall see that your time in London is good fun.”
Good fun? She’d rather pull her toenails out one by one. And as Black’s wife prattled on, Cleopatra was again that small girl with Diggory’s meaty hand wrapped about her throat as he choked off her breath and gleefully threatened her with death.
“We’ve a number of events already planned to introduce you to the ton, with your first formal introduction, a ball being held here—”
“Next week,” Diana supplied, widening her smile.
Penelope nodded. “It shall be a small, intimate affair.”
An event attended by nobles . . . all men she’d spent countless years of her life either stealing from or seeing inside her family’s club. Only now, she’d step into their world as an outsider.
“. . . quite lovely . . . not all of them . . . but the ones who’ve been invited are . . .”
The viscountess’s voice drifted in and out of focus as Cleopatra fought through the panic.
“If—”
“My rooms?” she blurted, her voice hoarse to her own ears. Her incoherent request was met with perplexity among Black’s kin. “I’d like to be shown to my rooms.” Before she crumpled into a ball of panic and despair before them.
For a long moment where hope was born, she believed Black and his family would exact the ultimate torture and force her to remain here through a cataloging of the hellish polite events to come so that Cleopatra’s only recourse would be a swift flight through that appealing front door.
The young ladies exchanged concerned looks, and that sent Cleopatra’s hackles up. “Of course. Of course,” Penelope Black murmured. “I expect you would like to see your new rooms.”
I’d rather burn those rooms to the same ash that the Hell and Sin now finds itself than take up place here.
“We’ll have your belongings brought up. Allow me to accompany you—”
Cleopatra and Mr. Black spoke in unison: “No.”
The last thing Cleopatra wanted in this instance was company. She wanted to shut a panel between herself and all these strangers and allow herself a moment of weakness to rail at her brother for the horror of it all. “I do not require your escort.”
Black’s wife gave her husband a long look.
The stony-faced proprietor shot a hand up, and Cleopatra automatically reached down toward her boot when Black’s next words stayed her.
“Adair, see to Miss Killoran’s belongings,” he said in a steely voice, his deliberate use of her surname a pointed testament that he saw her as an enemy.
She hesitated, casting a wary glance back at that miserable blighter.
“Miss Killoran,” Thorne taunted with an edge that dared her to take the first step.
Angling her chin, she returned her attention to the woman who’d opened her home, regardless of the bad blood between their families. “I am . . .” She struggled to get the words out. “. . . grateful to you for . . .” I can’t.
“There is no need to thank us, Cleopatra,” Penelope said, reaching for Cleopatra’s hands.
She recoiled from that gesture. Time had taught her enough to never trust one of the men and women connected to the Hell and Sin. Shoulders back, she backed away and fell into step alongside Adair Thorne.
She didn’t want their kindness. Feeling the two young ladies’ stares on her every movement, Cleopatra clutched her valise close.
“After you,” Thorne said, gesturing ahead.
She gave her head a slight shake.
“I’m not asking you,” he said tersely.
They locked gazes in a silent battle. So, she was to be escorted to her new rooms, not as a guest within their household, but as a person who bore watching. Black and his men were far cleverer than she’d credited, then.
The back of her neck prickled at the vulnerability of presenting herself so before these men she’d been raised to loathe. As she climbed the steps, she strained to hear the discussion that ensued in her wake. Alas, the streets had no doubt conditioned Black and his men with the same wariness Cleopatra herself had learned. They reached the top landing. “I understand you’re afraid of me, Thorne. Rightly so.” She watched as he knitted his tawny eyebrows into a single line. “But I cannot very well lead the way if I don’t know where to go,” she taunted, taking pleasure in baiting the man. Since she’d known Adair Thorne, he’d proven himself to be an arrogant rotter who didn’t have the sense to see a woman’s worth. It did, however, appear he had sense to be cautious of her.
“Straight, Killoran. End of the hall and left. Four doors down.” How very different those guardlike commands were from the deferential respect and fear shown her by the men at the Devil’s Den. The lords who visited her hell, along with the dregs of society and the staff there, feigned a respect for the Queen of the Dials, as she’d been nicknamed. She wanted to despise Thorne for his boldness but found she rather preferred this realness.
When she made no move to leave, he tipped his chin. “I said move.”
All her brief appreciation turned to dust at his order. She might respect his genuineness, but she didn’t take to being bossed about by anyone.
Gritting her teeth, Cleopatra resumed walking. As they moved down the plush carpeted halls, from the corner of her eyes, she took in the doors they passed. She’d learned early on to always measure the layout of her surroundings. One always had to be prepared to escape. Time to explore Black’s home would come later when she wasn’t under Thorne’s suspicious gaze.
At last they reached the far recesses of the townhouse: one of the last doors in the long hallway. Thorne shot a hand out, and she stiffened. He merely pressed the handle. She hesitated. It would be unwise for Thorne, Black, or any other of their men to inflict harm upon her. That act would result in an all-out war of the streets. Nonetheless, she bore the scar upon her hand from having entered a room with far less caution than she should. Cleopatra ducked her head inside.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the spacious, pale-pink chambers in a soft light. Pink. She curled her fingers tighter around her valise handle as a memory whispered forward: Cleopatra as she’d been in her youth, prowling the streets of London in search of unsuspecting lords, and seeing a fancy toff alongside a small girl in pink ruffles. The two had laughed and spoken with such a tenderness that, from that point forward, Cleopatra had come to abhor that soft shade of innocence because it reminded her of what she’d truly gone without—a loving parent.
“Not to your liking, Cleopatra?”
She started, grateful to Adair for pulling her back from the humiliating melancholy that struck. It was the first time he’d laid claim to her given name. Hearing him wrap it in his low baritone roused . . . something peculiar inside. A damned, unwanted fluttering that didn’t have anything to do with hatred or danger, and was all the more unnerving for it. She forced herself to look back at him. “That’ll be all,” Cleopatra said, dismissing him like a servant.
Splotches of color suffused his cheeks.
It was entirely too easy getting under this one’s skin. And for the first time in the whole of that miserable day, she felt the stirrings of amusement.
“Turn around,” he said gruffly.
“Wha—” Cleopatra gasped as he laid his hands to her waist. Her valise tumbled from her fingers, and God help her, the weight of his powerful hand upon her person brought her eyes briefly closed. She fought to draw in a steady breath, but it emerged ragged.
“Wh-what are you doing?” She managed to complete her earlier question, reaching belatedly for her weapon.
Adair gripped her two hands in a firm hold that also had a shocking gentleness to it. He lowered his lips close to her ear; the hint of coffee and cheroots stirred the sensitive skin of her nape. “Surely you don’t think we’ll not search you,” he muttered, wholly unaffected, as he patted her through her gown.
She tried to squeeze out an inventive curse—and came up empty.
Through the fabric of her satin skirts, the heat of his bold touch continued to burn her, holding her immobile. It had been years since a man had dared to touch her . . . in any way. That man had lost two fingers for that affront by Cleopatra’s hand herself. Adair’s touch, however, was nothing like that grasping, clumsy one of a toff trying to take a girl against an alleyway wall. His hand lingered on her belly, and her mouth went dry. In a bid for both nonchalance and control, she peeled her lip back in a sneer. “What good would a weapon tucked inside my gown do me?”
Ignoring her, he dropped to a knee and tugged her skirts up. The slap of cool air on her exposed legs effectively doused whatever maddening pull his touch had inflicted on her senses. “Bastard,” she hissed, shooting her boot out.
With his unencumbered hand, he caught her ankle. “No armed Killoran will sleep under our roof.” In quick order, he divested her of the sapphire-studded dagger and tossed it at the opposite side of the wall.
She silently screamed at the loss of that weapon and struggled against his hold. “Give me my damned knife,” she railed, yanking her foot left and right. Propelling her body sideways, she made a futile grab for the blade. Adair tightened his hold and glanced over at the weapon they battled for. His gaze lingered on that piece she’d retained of Diggory’s. “Don’t even think of it, ya lousy bugger,” she seethed. It was the only material item of any value to her.
When he’d joined Diggory’s gang, Broderick had convinced that hated leader of uniform blades to mark their connection. However, with the Celtic symbol of inner strength formed with the gems upon it, the blade was a reminder of her strength and ability to survive in the face of ugliness and evil. She’d be damned if Adair Thorne or any other claimed it for their own. She opened her mouth to bring his ears down but registered his stillness.
A flash of hatred flared in Adair’s green eyes. Did he recognize the blade for what it was? Then, how many who’d crossed unfortunate paths with Mac Diggory or his men had had a similar weapon touched to their throat at one time or another? Or in Cleopatra’s case, countless ones.
Taking advantage of Adair’s distraction, she shot her boot out and caught him between the legs.
The air left him on a swift exhale, and he immediately freed her to clutch at himself. Cleopatra dealt him another kick to his lower belly. She gasped as her toes collided with a hard wall of muscle better suited to a stone statue than a man. Nonetheless, her efforts had the intended effect, and another sharp breath left him. Cleopatra sprang into action and lunged for her dagger. She cried out as that firm, unyielding grip collected her ankle once more, upending her.
Cleopatra pitched forward. She put her palms out to catch herself. Adair swiftly brought her atop him, breaking her fall.
“Hellion,” he whispered, rolling her under him.
Their chests moved in like rhythm as her panting gasps for air blended with his noisy inhalations. The heat and power of him doused her logic and drove back her fear. Unbidden, her gaze went to his lips. Only one man had managed to place his lips this close to her own. She’d been a girl, and he’d been a blighter who’d liked to bugger children. At Broderick’s hand, that bastard had paid the price with his life. Yet, the hint of cheroots and coffee lingering on Adair Thorne’s breath was so very different. Intoxicating. His gaze lingered on her mouth. Did she imagine the way his throat worked? “Do not ever put your hands on me, hellion,” he whispered, and that slight movement nearly brought their lips into contact.
Her heart thudded as he slid a hand about her, cupping her at the nape. He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me, and I want it . . .
She recoiled. What in blazes was wrong with her? Get control of yourself. You are Cleopatra Killoran. One of the Queens of St. Giles.
“It wasn’t my hand that brought you down,” she whispered. She wrestled her knee back, but this time he caught her before she connected. Only, instead of wrestling it back into place, he caressed that portion of her leg.
Cleopatra gulped.
“Adair.”
They looked as one to that sharp exclamation. Ryker Black, Niall Marksman, and Calum Dabney stood at the end of the hall, pistols trained on them. Burning with humiliation at her own body’s reaction, Cleopatra had never been more grateful in the whole of her rotten existence for both having a gun pointed at her person and the intrusion of a Black.
“Wot in blazes are ya doing?” Marksman growled, eyeing his brother as though he’d sprung a second head.
A ruddy flush marred Adair’s chiseled cheeks. “The girl was armed.”
“That wasn’t a weapon you were grabbing,” she taunted, relishing the deepening color in his cheeks. “And I’m not a girl.” She bucked against him.
“You no doubt sprang from Satan’s side,” he muttered. “You’re barely—”
The tread of footfalls cut across whatever other insult he intended to toss out.
“Adair,” Ryker Black said sharply.
Using that distraction, Cleopatra jerked her knee between his legs.
With a groan befitting a wounded beast, Adair rolled off her and collapsed onto his back. She scrambled out from under him and crawled over to her knife. Cleopatra grabbed the serpent handle and got herself into a fighting stance. “Get the ’ell away from me,” she warned, breathless. My God, she’d been lusting after Adair Thorne.
She jabbed the dagger in the direction of each Black. This was never going to work. The mistrust was too great on each of their parts. One simply couldn’t overcome a lifetime’s worth of hatred, not even to achieve a goal that Broderick felt was for the greater good.
The proprietor of the Hell and Sin lowered his weapon to his side, and his brothers followed suit.
Guarded, she pressed her back against the wall.
“We have no intention of hurting you,” he said in gravelly tones. He looked over to Adair, who shoved himself into a standing position. “You were asked to escort her to her rooms, not to wrestle her in my damned corridors.”
Most other men, even the fearless Killoran lot, would have backed down when presented with Black’s palpable fury. Adair dug his heels in. “She is armed.” Not taking his gaze from Cleopatra, he grabbed her valise and unlatched it. He dumped the pistols and knives contained within on the hall floor. The cache clattered to the floor with a noisy thump.
“I’d be mad to enter your home weaponless,” she spat into the silence.
Tucking his pistol inside his waistband, Ryker Black dragged a hand over his face. “You cannot remain here, armed as you are.”
Then I’ll leave . . .
The words hovered on her lips and hung there. For if she marched out with her head up and her weapons in hand, where would they be? Broderick would merely send Ophelia—or worse—a too-compliant Gertrude back in her place. Only—giving over her ability to defend herself went against every lesson she’d learned on the streets of St. Giles.
“What will it be, Miss Killoran?” Mr. Dabney pressed. Had that emerged as a barking command, it would be easier than his calm matter-of-factness.
“Leave,” Adair said in hushed tones out of the corner of his mouth. His demand barely reached her ears. He wanted her here no more than she wanted to be here . . . and yet—she slid her eyes closed. There was a challenge there, and she heard it. And the world could say any number of things about Cleopatra Killoran—most of which would be true—but none would ever find her one to back down from a threat or challenge.
She forced her eyes open. Bending slowly, she held Ryker Black’s gaze as she purposefully resheathed her dagger. “You can have my guns and other knives. But this one I keep.”
He was already shaking his head. “No one here means you harm, but I have people here dependent upon me.” And he didn’t trust that she wouldn’t bring harm to his kin. Then, that was the way of their world.
“What about this guard you’ve set on me?” she nodded toward Adair.
“Given what we’ve witnessed, you’re quite capable of protecting yourself against Adair,” Niall Marksman drawled, earning a round of guffaws.
Adair shot his middle finger up in a crude gesture that merely resulted in another bevy of laughter.
She started. Those expressions of amusement and mirth were unexpected and unfamiliar. She’d seen the men before her as blank souls with blackness inside. To now know they shared her own family’s sense of loyalty, and managed to find amusement in life, stirred a restlessness. She preferred them cold and unfeeling to . . . human.
“What will it be, Miss Killoran?” Ryker Black repeated, his amusement fading so quickly that she might have well imagined that crack in his icy veneer.
She hesitated, at war with herself. Think of your sisters. Think of Gertie and Fie . . . “God rot all your souls,” she muttered, and removed her knife once more.
Black nodded and glanced over her shoulder. Adair came forward, hand extended. “When you are done here, it will be returned to you.”
Triumph glittered in his green eyes, and if she were as ruthless as the late Diggory himself, she’d have plunged the tip of her dagger into Adair Thorne for that gloating victory. Tamping down a curse, she tossed it at his feet. Her palms went moist as he bent and retrieved her most cherished weapon. “If anything happens to that, I’ll end you, Adair Thorne.”
His eyes flashed fire. “Did you just threaten me?”
“I gave you a vow.” She glanced over at his brothers. “All of you.”
Bereft at the loss of her family and now her dagger, her heart wrenched viciously while all these strangers stared on. And before she did something like crumple before them, she stormed into her new rooms, slammed the door hard behind her, and turned the lock.
Cleopatra leaned against the wood panel and, borrowing support, slid herself down to the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, and a single tear slipped free, rolling a path down her cheek.