The world slowed. West crashed into Benedict’s back, sending them both tumbling down the final steps. Guests surged toward the double doors, the ones Eliza had vanished through.
His legs dragged as they cleared a brutal path through the onlookers—fairy wings, dominos, and diadems scattered underfoot.
Benedict elbowed his way onto the balcony—and his heart stopped.
Sophie was there, knelt on the stone, with Bella’s head in her lap—Bella’sbleedinghead. His sister lay slumped in a crumpled pile of phoenix feathers—they waved a pathetic, ragged surrender in the soft breeze.
Eliza was nowhere—but she had to be.
Bash hovered over Sophie and Bella, knife out and pointed at the crowd, gaze frantic—poised to strike.
West crumpled at Bella’s side, wrapping her limp hand in his trembling ones. He brought her palm to his cheek.
“West?” he croaked.
“She’s alive,” the man said, voice weak.
Relief flickered only to be consumed by the suffocating truth: Eliza was gone.
His pulse thundered, drowning out the world.
“Get out of my way!” a man shouted from inside. Onlookers grumbled—useless obstacles.
“Move! Now!” a feminine voice ordered. Something about the command penetrated the thick skulls of the spectators, and they began a slow shuffle toward the doors. “If you do not leave the club this instant, I shall have the constable haul you out by the ear. Do not think my threat an idle one. Wait for your carriage outside.”
At last, urgency dawned on the ushers, and they pushed the guests along.
Finally, a path opened, and Wayland stumbled out onto the balcony. “Eliza?” His voice cracked, gaze swiveling.
His eyes fell on Benedict.
“Gone.” The single word cost Benedict everything.
Bella was injured. Eliza was missing, in the hands of a known reprobate—a reprobate who would?—
A copper tang flooded Benedict’s mouth. He swallowed it along with the horrific visions crowding his mind.
Wayland’s face crumpled along with his knees.
Eliza’s mother, having cleared an entire gaming hell in minutes, strode out onto the balcony. Even as she took in the horrific scene, she carried herself with poise. In the space of a single breath, she had her shaken daughter enveloped in her arms.
“Get her inside,” she instructed West and Bash, nodding to Bella. West shook his head at the enforcer, then pushed up to his feet and gathered Bella in his arms, one hand banded about her shoulders, the other under her knees. With impossible care, he took her into the hell.
The order finally penetrated Benedict’s frozen mind. He rushed forward to shove the abandoned dice, glasses, and plates to one side of the nearest table.
West’s arms trembled as he placed Bella across the mahogany before smoothing down her hair and wings.
Benedict had never considered a world without Bella’s sharp tongue and sharper wit. Her silence threatened to crush him.
Behind them, Eliza’s mother ushered Sophie forward and pressed her into a nearby chair. Everyone else stumbled into seats surrounding them.
Far from the elegant perdition of a few hours ago—now, the club was an actual hell. Remnants of debauchery melded into the green carpet: pastry crumbs, glittering gems, tarnished coin, all alike in their irrelevance. Smoke and soot from the oil lamps clung to the burnished curtains. Even the heavenly garden wilted, petals drooping and scattered across the floor, trampled.
Beside the bar, Ainsley had three terrified red-headed women to comfort. The fool from earlier still puttered there too, polishing a glass without a care in the world.
A lady in gold that Benedict did not recognize hovered near the exit. “Lee has gone for a physician,” she said. “Leo is calling for the carriage. We’ll be off as soon as he returns. Unless there is anything else you need?” Bellemere’s mother then.
“No, thank you, Charlotte,” Eliza’s mother said.
