Elowen began to move her fingers subtly against the ropes binding her wrists, the rough fibres biting, but starting to give under her careful pulls. Her heart raced. If she could loosen them enough, she might free her hands before Victor could act again.
Victor’s grey eyes darted to the window behind him. “What—”
She didn’t reply. Her pulse hammered; every instinct urged her on. Lucas was out there, moving, observing, calculating. The hope she had clung to surged through her.
Victor’s frustration flared again, oblivious to the threat outside, consumed by his unravelling plan. “You think your courage matters! You think defiance changes the outcome! You are nothing! Nothing but a tool, a pawn, a means to an end!”
Elowen’s breath caught, her fingers moving quickly. The fibres loosened further. She met his gaze calmly. “Then consider this, Victor: pawns sometimes bite back.”
Outside, the shadow shifted again. Lucas was getting closer. And in that moment, Elowen felt a spark of steely hope. She would not give in. She would not falter.
And if Victor meant to use her as bait, he would soon find she had teeth.
***
The brick bit into Lucas’s shoulder—cold, rough, unforgiving—and he welcomed it, for it kept him still. He could see nothing but a slit of moonlight through the warehouse windows, hear only the lapping of water and the faint creak of timber. Beside him, Henry’s breathing was tight and measured. William’s jaw worked soundlessly in the dark.
“Tell me again,” Lucas whispered.
William’s voice came as a dry rustle. “A dockhand saw a young woman being carried from a carriage into this warehouse. He described Victor overseeing it—coat, gait, the cigar. Frederick verified the location. The manifests link this building to Lord Orvilleton’s shipments.”
Henry’s hand tightened on his knife hilt. “Constable’s men hold the perimeter. They’ll move on my signal. We know theyexpect pursuit. That’s why those three are patrolling as hired muscle.”
Footsteps scraped on cobbles, slow and deliberate. Lucas felt the vibration through the wall. He drew William further into shadow, pressing himself against the brick like part of it.
Three shapes detached from the gloom and moved toward the southeast approach. The men’s voices carried—low, rough, mocking. Boots scuffed; lanterns bobbed. One spat.
“Night’s clear,” a gruff voice said. “No one’s keen to be seen.”
“Good,” another replied. “Makes the work easier.” They laughed—short, mean sounds.
Lucas counted the strides, gauged the spacing between men and light. He studied the doorline, the seams where wood gave way. The southwest entrance—William had said—was less guarded within. That would be Henry and William’s route, both cover and escape.
“On my mark,” Lucas murmured. “Henry, William—take the rear. When I break the front, the constable presses in from the yard. Move fast. No theatrics.”
He smelled the river—salt, tar, rot. It pulsed beneath the city, as alive as blood. He felt Elowen’s pulse beneath his own, imagined yet immediate, and pushed that image into the narrow space between thought and muscle.
“Now,” he breathed.
Lucas sprang. The door splintered beneath his shoulder with a sound like gunfire. Wood burst, splinters rained; the shock jolted through his arm and ribs. He rolled, came up on his knees inside the dim cavern of the warehouse.
Light pooled in the centre where lanterns hung low. Crates crouched like sleeping beasts; papers lay scattered across a barrel table. He saw her then—Elowen—bound to a chair, back straight, chin high, moonlight tracing her face.
Victor stood beside her, hands at his belt, fingers drumming an irregular rhythm against the pistol there. For a second, their eyes met. Surprise flickered, then the composed, predatory mask returned—the charm stripped to intent.
“Elowen!” Lucas’s voice cut like steel. He wanted to run to her, but the warehouse erupted with motion. Men pushed from the shadows—six of them—emerging like wolves.
Victor’s mouth twitched. “Ah. The Duke,” he said, tone precise as a blade. “So punctual.”
Lucas counted footsteps, measured angles. He advanced—slow, deliberate. “Put the pistol down,” he ordered.
Victor did not move.
Elowen’s eyes flicked toward a crate near her feet, then back to Lucas. A minute tilt of her fingers told him what she’d done. The ropes were looser than before—she’d been working them, fraying the fibres under steady pressure. The crate was within reach.
“Now!” Lucas barked.
Elowen surged. Wood rasped as she wrenched the small crate free and swung with all her strength. The impact struck Victor’s shoulder with a sickening crack. He staggered. The pistol clattered across the boards.
