He had half a mind to throttle her where she stood. But Sabrina’s face—her laughter, her softness, the way she had looked at him as though he were better than the man he feared he was—rose before him, shattering every instinct but one. He had to save her.
“Very well,” he said tightly. “You will take me to her.”
Élise inclined her head. “As the letter instructed—you must come alone.”
He almost laughed, a bleak, humorless sound. Alone. Surrounded by enemies. Walking directly into the hands of those who had already plotted his ruin. He knew precisely what awaited him. A trap, likely death, and yet… There was no choice. If the entire world closed its jaws around him, he would still walk into the dark so long as Sabrina stood somewhere within it.
He strode past Élise, pausing only to take his greatcoat from a hook by the door. He strolled out of his study and toward the foyer. He would ensure that Sabrina came out of this without any lasting harm. She was more important than anything else in his life. He didn’t care if he died. Not really. He had long ago resigned himself to an early death. He had to, with the sort of work he had done on the continent. War often led to a shortened life. It was only a miracle death had not greeted him sooner than this.
Her voice drifted after him. “Are you certain, Your Grace? You may not return.”
He did not look back. “I would die,” he said quietly, “before I let them harm her.” But they had already harmed her, hadn’t they? She had been missing for a couple of days now. What had they already done to her? Was she all right? Did they cause her any sort of pain? For that alone he wanted to murder them all. He took a deep fortifying breath and prayed he would not be too late. With that, Leander followed his enemy into the storm. The rain had become far more torrential and wasn’t that a sign of what was to come…
The air inside the ironworks was thick—hot, metallic, and stifling. Smoke curled through the rafters like restless phantoms, drifting above the clamor of hammers striking molten iron. Sabrina Fairfax had never set foot in a place such as this, had never imagined that work so brutal, so blistering, could exist. The workers were shadows moving through firelight, their harsh voices echoing against the stone walls. She understood none of their trade, but she understood fear—and it had become the very rhythm of her breathing.
She sat on a rough wooden chair in a dim corner; her wrists chafed from the coarse rope that bound them. The iron rails behind her radiated heat like some monstrous furnace-breathing creature. Somewhere deeper in the factory, the great bellows groaned, feeding flames that hissed and spat as though alive.
Her captor’s men barely spared her a glance as they passed, though she wished they would keep walking forever. The one who frightened her most was the brute who oversaw the factory—a massive, boulder-shouldered man with a face hewn from stone and eyes that held no kindness. He spoke very little, but when he did, his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Bastien called him an associate. Sabrina suspected the devil himself would have found better company.
Yet even that giant did not chill her blood half as much as Bastien.
There was something wrong about him—something in the smooth curl of his smile, the softness of his tread, the way his eyes gleamed like polished obsidian. Evil did not always need to roar; sometimes it whispered. Sometimes it smiled.
Earlier that morning, Élise Marchand had come gliding across the iron-scarred floors with a grace wholly unsuited to such a place. Her blue silk gown had looked like a mockery amidst soot and flame.
She leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I am off to visit His Grace.” Élise stood and met gaze, her eyes cold. “I will ensure he receives the news of your impending demise.”
Sabrina had only shaken her head, her voice broken and raw. “I pray he never does.”
Because she knew what Bastien planned. She had overheard enough, he had confessed much and the whispers of retribution, of traps set years in the making had left her rigid with fear. If Leander came, he would walk into certain death. And she—she would be the blade Bastien used to deliver the final wound. She had prayed—desperately, frantically, silently—that the letter would be intercepted, lost, burned, anything that would keep Leander away.
But her prayers shattered like glass the moment she heard the great doors of the factory groan open. Bootsteps, two sets, echoed around her. Her heart stopped.
No—no, it could not be…
But then he emerged through the hazy smoke. The only man that she would ever love stood before her next to that evil woman. His tall frame cut through the gloom like a blade through fog. His expression was controlled—too controlled. As though he stood at a ball rather than at the mouth of danger. Leander kept his head held high, but she was not fooled. He was afraid. Not of what might happen to him, but what might befall her.
Élise strolled forward with her lips curved into a satisfied smile. Sabrina’s breath caught, her body trembling so violently her chair creaked beneath her. No. No, you foolish man. You should have run. You should have saved yourself.
Bastien appeared from the shadows opposite them, slow and triumphant. The smile he offered was the kind wolves showed lambs before the bite. “Well done, Élise,” he purred. “Just as I promised, he came the moment you tugged the leash.”
“It was my pleasure,” Élise said. “I will leave you to your plotting. I have other things I must see to.” With that Élise left the factory.
Leander did not react, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. Bastien turned his attention to Sabrina—and her heart iced over. “Poor Lady Sabrina,” he said softly. “She never did understand that she was merely the last piece on the board. That everything before this was simply…positioning.”
He faced Leander again, spreading his arms as though greeting an old friend. “Did you know, Lionston, how simple it was to remove Laith? A small adjustment to a hunting party, the right positioning of a horse’s hoof on wet ground… and your brother died with hardly a struggle.” He clicked his tongue. “A tragedy, they called it.”
He stepped closer. Leander did not flinch.
“And your father…” Bastien continued, his voice dropping to a malicious whisper, “a carriage accident is even easier to arrange. Wheels loosen beneath moonlight, harnesses cut just so—oh, it was magnificent. The old duke never saw the ravine until it swallowed him whole.” He said it with pride—pride—as though recounting some masterful accomplishment.
Sabrina felt bile rise in her throat. Bastien leaned in, his voice soft but ringing through the factory. “I took your brother. I took your father. I stripped you of everything you held dear. But there is one thing left—only one.”
He turned his gaze to her. “Lady Sabrina Fairfax.” Her blood turned to ice. And Leander…
Oh, dear Lord…Leander’s eyes darkened—not with fear, but with a murderous calm that chilled her to the bone.
Bastien laughed. “You came to save her. And now you will watch her die.”
