As the Runners dragged him toward the door, Whitfield’s eyes found Eliza. “This is your fault! You meddling little bitch! You should have married me when you had the chance! You should have?—”
“Get him out of here,” Morgan ordered, his voice shaking with barely suppressed violence.
They hauled Whitfield away, his screams echoing down the corridor even as they faded.
“-you’ll all pay for this! I’ll see you ruined! I’ll?—”
Then, sweet silence. Morgan turned to Eliza, and his face went white.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, his voice strangled.
Eliza touched her neck, her fingers coming away with a smear of blood. She had almost forgotten, though it had just happened. Everything was so much, so fast.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered, her breathing still ragged from the adrenaline.
“Nothing?” Morgan was beside her in an instant, his hands gentle despite the panic in his eyes. “He cut you. That bastard cut you!”
“Morgan, look at me.” Eliza caught his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Look. It’s barely a scratch.”
She tilted her head back, showing him the wound. It was shallow, already clotting.
“It’s not deep,” Hartley confirmed, examining it with a professional eye. “She’ll have a mark for a few days, but it’s not serious. It should not scar.”
“I should have been faster,” he said, his hands trembling as they hovered near her throat without quite touching. “I should have… I could have…”
“You were perfect,” Eliza said firmly. “You saved me. You stopped him. And now he’s going to pay for everything he’s done.”
“You could have died. If he’d pressed any harder, your throat…”
“It’s over, Morgan. He confessed. The Runners heard everything. It’s finally over. We did it.”
Morgan buried his face in her hair, his arms wrapping around her so tightly she could barely breathe. But she didn’t complain. She needing his touch, to process the terror she’d been holding at bay for the past week.
“Abigail has justice. And Whitfield will never hurt anyone again.”
From the corridor, she could still hear the distant sounds of Whitfield’s protests as he was dragged away to face his reckoning. And despite the burning line across her throat, despite the trembling in her limbs, despite everything, Eliza smiled. They’d won.
Chapter Thirty
Eliza woke alone. She reached across the bed, finding Morgan’s side cold, the sheets undisturbed.
He must have left hours ago, or perhaps he never came to bed at all…
The morning after Whitfield’s arrest dawned cold and grey, rain pattering against the windows of the Kirkhammer townhouse. She sat up slowly, the small bandage on her neck pulling at the skin. It was a physical reminder of the ordeal she had endured. The scratch itself was minor, just as she’d told Morgan. What hurt more was reaching for him in the night and finding only empty sheets.
She pulled a robe around her and walked down the hall. She found him in his study, still in yesterday’s clothes, staring out at the rain.
“Morgan?” she said softly from the doorway.
He turned, and something in his expression made her heart clench. His face was carefully blank, his eyes distant.
“You’re awake,” he said without affect. “Good. I’ve had Mrs. Dawson prepare a full breakfast. You should eat.”
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked, moving into the room.
“I had work to attend to.” He turned back to the window. “Hartley sent word this morning. Whitfield has been formally charged with three counts of murder. The trial will likely begin within the month.”
“That’s… that’s wonderful news.”
