I rise from the chair so fast that the feet scrape against the stone floor. The hum of quiet conversation cuts off from our neighboring diners as they stare at me with curious looks. I pay them no heed, my eyes unfocused. “He didn’t reject me,” I say under my breath. “He hinted at it, but he didn’t state his disinterest outright. It hurts just as badly to never know.”
Patrick tilts his head. “Miss Hartford?”
I lift my gaze to his, and my lips curl into a sympathetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wright. I’m not actually quiet and demure. I’m quiet, but it’s because I’m shy around strangers and socially awkward. It takes all my energy to pretend otherwise. One time, I bit a girl’s ear off when I realized I’d been the butt of several ongoing jokes. Tonight, I didn’t want salad or soup or whatever main course you ordered for us. I wanted steak, and I wanted it rare. I wanted to eat it with my hands. These are things you probably would have eventually learned about me, if I gave you a chance. I think I could come to like you. I think you could be the perfect model for my paintings. Probably the perfect husband too. But…there’s someone else.”
His expression falls, and I realize how painful it is to be the one doing the rejecting. But I can’t lead him on, just like I can’t shield myself from emotional pain. “There’s someone else,” I repeat, voice trembling. “He’s not perfect, but he already knows me the way I want to be known. I need him in my life, whether we’re friends or lovers. He deserves to know how I feel, because it’s like you said. It must feel good to be wanted, right? I want to tell him all of that, even if it hurts me in the end.”
Patrick blows out a soft breath, then gives me a small grin. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping away from the table. That’s when I remember the attention I drew when I stood. Attention that is very much fixed on me still. Heat crawls up my neck, and I dip into a clumsy curtsy, then grimace at the tables around me. “Sorry. I…I’m going to…go.”
Patrick rises, maybe to offer me a parting bow, maybe to try and walk me out. I don’t know because I don’t look back. Instead, I run out the door and down the street, my heart racing. For once, I’m not running from fear or pain. I’m running toward it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DAPHNE
It’s Friday night, so I know exactly where to find Monty. The evening sky is overcast, and soon a drizzle begins. As much as I’d love to luxuriate in the gentle rainfall, I’m on the opposite end of town from where the industrial district is. It makes more sense to hail a hansom. Everything inside me buzzes—with hope, with terror—and I can hardly sit still in the cab. I want to shout at the coachman to drive faster, to reach outside the window and slap the horse’s flank and prod him into a gallop myself, but I settle for sitting on my hands.
Finally, the cab enters the industrial district, and I ask him to drop me off. The abandoned textile building isn’t yet in sight, but I’m not sure I should direct public attention to the club’s location. The rain has let up to an even softer drizzle, coating me in mist as I run the rest of the way. I don’t hesitate when I reach the fence; I dart through the gap and race toward the door. There’s no line this time, as the fights have likely already begun.
I knock at the heavy door, politely at first, and then slam on it with my fist. The kangaroo fae who served as doorman and referee appears through a slim crack in the door, eying me with suspicion.
“I’m late,” I say, my words breathless. “I’m here for the fights.”
He assesses me through slitted lids. Then he opens his palm and extends it to me. “Six emerald chips.”
I hand over the gemstone currency, and he begrudgingly lets me in. Before I stride toward the rush of noise that beckons from ahead, I face the kangaroo fae. “Have you seen Monty—” I snap my mouth shut, remembering that none of the fighters go by their real names. What was his stage name again? “Have you seen Lucky Lovesbane tonight?”
“Ah, right,” he says, his countenance softening. “I remember you. His special guest from a few weeks back. Yeah, he’s in the ring right now.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “Thank you!” I rush the rest of the way into the main portion of the building, swarmed with an onslaught of scents and sounds. My insides scream at me to cover my ears, to shrink down, to leave this chaotic, busy place, but I tamp down my fear. I can’t see the ring from here, with so many tall figures crammed around it, but I glimpse a flash of motion from up ahead, illuminated by the spotlight formed by the cluster of yellow fire sprites that fill the enormous glass orb overhead.
With a deep breath, I start forward, pushing my way between bodies and offering muttered apologies. I exhale a cry of relief when the ring comes into view. Just a few more bodies stand between me and the stage, so I push my way through, all the way to the front, until my view is clear.
First I recognize Gabby Stabbington, the broad-shouldered butcher who fought in the first match I watched. She’s dressed in the same ensemble as before, including her blood-splattered apron. She shuffles on her feet, back facing me. Then she steps to the side, and I’m granted my first glimpse of Monty.
My chest tightens at the sight of him. One of his eyebrows is split, blood running down the side of his face, mingling with the sweat that coats his skin. Bruises bloom over his bare torso, and his heavy movements make it clear he’s exhausted. Their match must have been going on for quite some time.
They circle each other, and Gabby lands a punch to his sternum. He doesn’t so much as raise his arms to block it, and instead heaves in on himself and stumbles to the side.
His name leaves my lips with a sharp cry. “Monty.”
His gaze shoots to mine, and his eyes widen with surprise. I don’t hear what he says next, but I can make out the shape of his lips. “Daph?”
Just then, Gabby Stabbington sends a vicious right hook into his jaw and sends him toppling to the floor.
Monty doesn’t get knockedunconscious this time, but he does stay down long enough to mark his defeat. My guts writhe with anxiety. Monty mentioned how his fights are fixed, allowing him to work off his weekly loan payments. I was hurting too much when he told me about this, so I didn’t dwell on what I heard, but now I can’t help wondering if he was meant to lose tonight. If not, did my presence distract him at a critical moment? Was it a mistake coming here?
My feet beg me to flee, but I don’t. I root myself in place, determined to face this head-on, no matter what.
Gabby and Monty meet at the middle of the ring in a friendly handshake. Monty descends from the platform, and as soon as his feet hit the concrete, I’m there. Our eyes meet, and I don’t know what to say, what to do. Monty’s expression is impossible to read, obscured by blood, sweat, and bruises. For several shallow breaths we simply stare at each other as if trying to make sense of a sudden apparition. Then he heaves a sigh, drops his gaze, and gathers his belongings from the base of the stage. He toes on his shoes, retrieves his shirt, and pulls it over his head, not bothering to secure the top buttons. Once both arms are through, his fingers come around my wrist and he drags me away from the stage.
His grip is gentle, but his manner is curt. I follow him through the swarm of bodies and out the door. He pulls me across the vacant lot and onto the quiet night streets of the industrial district. The sky continues to drizzle a soft mist of rain.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
He walks ahead of me, picking up his pace whenever I try to catch up with him. “I’m getting you in a cab back home.”
