But now that I’ve seen the Shadowbane, the one person whose job it is to know of crimes committed across the continent, my scar feels like a confession of treason.
For it is treason to have escaped a Sinless duke like I did two years ago.
Treason to have survived his attempt to devour my heart.
The Sinless lord moves faster than I can blink, suddenly close. He bares his teeth and closes his fingers over my wrist in another too-fast motion. His hand is uncomfortably warm, his grip so much stronger than I expected. I cry out as he wrenches my hand away from my robe. Before I can react, he tugs loose the top ribbon closure at the base of my throat. Then the next. Then—
A shadow falls over us. The Sinless halts his efforts, though it isn’t of his own volition. His fingers loosen from my wrist, his other hand forcibly removed from my robe by the last person I expect. I launch back as the Shadowbane steps between us.
I thought he left hours ago. Did he…
Did he just fucking rescue me?
“I apologize for the disappointment, Lord Wheaton,” the Shadowbane growls. His voice is so low and deadly it reverberates down my spine like the Bard’s deep baritone when he sings. His hand remains clenched around the other man’s wrist, much like how Lord Wheaton handled me mere moments ago. “But this one is mine.”
Hearing him claim me ashissets my teeth on edge, but I don’t dare argue.
The Sinless lord pales, but his eyes flash with defiance. I expect Lord Wheaton to fight the Shadowbane’s authority, maybe even physically. Should they come to blows, I’m not certain who would win. The Sinless are said to be immortal, but what of the half-Sinless Shadowbanes? Who is stronger, a foppish immortal lord who spent most of his life fed from the proverbial silver spoon? Or the brutish halfsoul who deals in death and violence as his way of life? After a few tense moments, the Sinless’s expression shifts into a mask of boredom, and he shrugs out of the other man’s grip.
“As you wish, Shadowbane,” Lord Wheaton says, a hint of disgust in his tone. Without a second glance, he strides away. The Shadowbane doesn’t follow, but he pins his gaze on Lord Wheaton’s every step until he exits the club.
Freed from both their attentions, I skirt to the side, finally catching sight of Mr. Rockefeller. He stands near the only other door in the room, the one reserved for his performers and servants. His stiff posture suggests he witnessed what transpired and knows his party needs to end. Now. With a nod, he opens the private door, lets in several servants—who will have to bear the burden of disposing of the dead harpist—and signals for his performers to retreat to the dressing room.
Thank the gods.
I make a beeline for the door.
The Shadowbane steps into my path. “Are you all right?” His voice is clipped, with an edge of exasperation. He rakes a rough hand through his hair, pushing back the dark, shoulder-length strands from his forehead. The veins on his hand bulge with the motion, as if he’sfighting not to follow Lord Wheaton and pummel him. Or maybe it’s me he wants to pummel. Perhaps voicing concern for someone so far beneath him is physically painful.
Well, he need not feign worry on my part. I’d rather he took the fucking hint Rockefeller is giving and left. Same goes for the other straggling guests, who don’t even bother with the pretense of finishing their drinks and instead watch with unabashed amusement.
I gather enough composure to answer. “I’m fine…sir.” I tack on the last part, unsure what honorific to use for someone of his status. My eyes flash back toward the door where Rockefeller still stands, ushering my companions down the dark hallway toward the dressing room. Though he watches me and the Shadowbane sidelong, his back is half turned toward us. This is yet another situation he has no authority over. If the hunter wants to feel like a godsdamned hero, it’s up to me to ensure he does.
I dip into an uneven curtsy. “I am grateful for your aid, sir. You have my heartfelt gratitude, but I must bid you a good evening.” As I straighten, I take my chance to sidestep him.
He mirrors my motions, blocking me again. Desperation claws at my chest. I just want out of here. I want my stiff bed in the barracks. I want to forget I ever caught the attention of not one but two dangerous men tonight. I want my heart to stop fucking racing like it’s going to burst from my chest in a gruesome pantomime of my performance.
I curl my fingers, fighting to maintain a hold on my nerves. “You were very kind to help me,” I say through my teeth, “but I must now join the others.”
“You mistake my actions for kindness,” he says, and I lift my eyes to his. He gives me a humorless grin that might as well be a snarl. “I meant what I said to Lord Wheaton. You belong to me now”—
I open my mouth to protest, but he seals his claim with the two words that brook no further argument. The name I left behind in a bloodstained cell. A name not even Mr. Rockefeller knows.
—“Inana Westwood.”
Chapter Four
Inana
He knows. Fuck. He knows who I am.
Echoes of my name reverberate through my ears. Even though he said it quietly enough for only me to hear, I still hazard a glance at the guests who linger, necks craning for a better view of what’s happening. And what exactlyishappening? Is this the end for me? If he’s discovered my identity, he’ll seek to claim my bounty, which can only end in my execution. I’ll be put to death the same way I was meant to die the first time: my chest flayed open, my heart fed to a Sinless royal.
Two years on the run wasted. All my plans for funding my escape from the continent gone.
Anger flares inside me like a stubborn flame.
I will not give in so easily.
