In the same instant, a sharp pop cracked behind her, followed by a wave of blistering heat. She turned, dread clawing up her throat. Flames had already consumed her door, the fire spreading with terrifying speed.
Her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
You have to move, Melanie.
She turned back to the window, leaning out again, gulping a lungful of air.
And far, far below, a handful of riders thundered along Regent Street, the pounding of hooves muffled by the growing din of the fire. And then she saw him, leading the charge.
Malum.
His silver eyes glinted in the darkness, focused, unyielding. On her.
He came.
Her fingers gripped the window ledge, holding on to the one truth that broke through the smoke and panic: Malum was here.
THE TRELLIS
As Malum led the sprint out of the park, his thoughts churned.
Crossings was behind the fires, of that, he was damn near certain. But then why the hell had Crossings’ own townhouse burned down? Was it one of his own people turning against him at long last, a disgruntled investor or accomplice?
And then what of the fire at theDomus?If Northwoods truly knew nothing about it, then it was entirely possible the incident was unrelated to any of this. Malum had more enemies than just Crossings, after all, but it was difficult for him to imagine any of them attempting something so foolhardy and drastic. Hell, the majority of thetonactively disliked him, but his title tended to insulate him from any serious forms of reprisal.
Until now.
The hunting lodge, theDomus Emporium, Crossings’ townhouse, and now this. It couldn’t possibly all be a coincidence.
The smell of smoke grew sharper in the air, the towering plumes stretching ominously over the skyline. With each stride, they drew closer to Regent Street—to Preston Hall, where Malum had left Ernest that morning, believing the boy to be safe.
His chest tightened with worry.
But as they neared the source of the smoke, Malum found that his worry was misplaced. Becausehistownhouse wasn’t the one burning.
Malum’s heart stopped.
The inferno raged across the street—consuming the Rutherford home.
Flames leapt from the roof of the townhome, greedy tongues of fire overwhelming the upper floors.
He had to move faster. Unable to even begin deducing who had started it, all his thoughts, his being—his very soul—focused on who might be inside.
Melanie.
Reeling from ice-cold fear, Malum forced himself to take in the scene.
The familiar sight of the household’s butler, along with some of his own servants and several people who he assumed were the Rutherford’s’ immediate neighbors, hovered in the street. And something was scattered at their feet—pieces of paper drifting and skipping along on the breeze.
On the side of the building, a man was caught up in the vines, and the instant Malum realized who it was, he had more questions than answers.
The Duke of Crossings.
Malum’s father’s old partner was only partway down the trellis, his movements frantic, the wooden frame bowing under his weight.
And then, up just a few feet higher, there she stood. In the same place where Malum had seen her last.
Her face, framed by the open window, was pale against the glow of the inferno. Blue eyes, wide and desperate, locked onto his. For a moment, everything else faded—the crackling of thefire, the shouts of his companions, even the sight of the trellis trembling beneath Crossings’ weight.
