The bite of the oath stung her lips, leaving them bloody. It mingled with his own oath, the power-spat words tearing over her tongue. So he was still strong enough for this. She could practically feel the hum of his power throbbing beneath his skin.
"You have two weeks of service," he said. "Use it wisely. Now get me the hell out of here."
Hot water. Good lord. Lucien pressed the flannel to his face, wiping away the last of the shaving foam. His face gleamed back at him in the reflection from the mirror, his newly shaven cheeks flushed and pink. It did little to soften the harsh look of his face; the sharp slash of his cheekbones and the golden, almost feverish gleam of his eyes. His body had fared no better. Hard, lean, stripped down to bare muscle, he looked somewhat like a caged tiger. Bedlam had changed him. A little shudder rolled over his skin as the power in the wards in the room brushed against him. In more ways than one...
The carriage ride to Miss Martin's establishment had been horrendous. Bright lights, the harsh blare of an omnibus horn, and muffled shouts. He'd had to drag the curtain on the carriage down, shielding his eyes from the inch of light that managed to creep in below it. Three months in the liquid dark of solitary had made him horrifically sensitive. The world was too bright, too loud, and full of noise, ripe scents, and the jarring scream of babbled conversation.
When Miss Martin had glanced at him, a question in those dangerous blue eyes, he'd simply curled his lip in a silent snarl. That's right, darling. You wanted a madman. You got one.
Dragging on the shirt one of her servants had placed out for him reminded him a little of the man he'd once been. A stranger. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, but he finally managed to make them work. The creature in the mirror was transforming before his eyes, resembling the man he'd once been.
Still... Not the same. Never the same again, no matter how much he looked like it.
This was what came of trusting the man he'd called a father all his life—agreeing to a wellspring bond that had allowed Lord Rathbourne to take control of his powers for a certain ritual. It was the only reason he was still alive. Unable to repel Lord Rathbourne's controlling collar, he'd been forced to summon a demon against his will. It was those last few words that were the important ones. A capital crime became incarceration, instead of execution.
Memory fractured in his head. The demon's foul, gloating smile as Lucien's mouth formed those damning words, Lord Rathbourne pulling his strings much as a puppet-master might. Fighting it. No... No, I will not command it to do this! I will not ask it to murder the Prime! And those fatal words as he realized there was no way free of this: “I bid thee to kill my father.”
He'd meant Lord Rathbourne, of course.
And the demon had smiled, its bulbous lips splitting over ragged teeth. “As Master commands.”
Then it had vanished.
Lord Rathbourne's mocking laugh was the only thing remaining, and in that moment, he'd speared Lucien with the truth, the reason he'd been such a cruel bastard all Luc's life. “Who do you think your father is, boy?”
The pain of the memory slashed through him, and Lucien returned to himself, bent over the vanity and gripping the polished oak veneer as if his life depended on it. Sucking in a huge breath, he could barely see, his vision shattering into a million different colors.
Lord Rathbourne. The Prime. Miss Martin. This was upon their heads. He would have his revenge, the way he had Lord Rathbourne. The thought served to soothe some of the violence of his nerves, to let all of those dancing colors flicker away to nothing.
Lucien looked up, meeting his own expression. Lord Rathbourne was dead, obliterated by the backlash, as Luc tore himself free of the bond forged. Now he had a chance to repay the Prime's so-called mercy in sending him to Bedlam, and Miss Martin for being the one to capture him. He wouldn't forget the callous way in which she'd cut him off from his sorcery and dragged him before the Prime.
Ever.
Thumbing his braces over his shoulders, he fixed a tie over that damning scar at his throat, and shrugged into his coat. The tie looked a mess, but he was breathing too hard to let anyone else in here to help him with it. Silence and peace. That was all he needed, for the moment. How ironic that after months of dreaming of people, of touch, of conversation, all he wanted now was to hide away. Ignoring his shaking hands, he straightened the tie and examined himself. He wasn't going to get what he wanted.
Time to deal with the Devil herself.
If he found the courage to leave the dark, shuttered bedchambers she'd delivered him to at her small set of apartments.
Christ. Lucien scraped a shaking hand over his mouth. He felt like half a man. Pull yourself together, you lily-livered toff. Dragging on the copper bracelet they'd taken from him when he first arrived at Bedlam, he instantly felt soothed. He'd spent months working runes to shield and protect into the metal; it was a device that could protect him from sorcery, even with his power still so raw.
Miss Martin. If he focused on the devilish-sweet memory of her face, he found he could breathe a little. Revenge. Freedom. To forge himself anew. The litany grounded him.
It was time to deal with the Devil herself.
Chapter Two
Lucien found Miss Martin in the conservatory, led there by the indomitable Mrs. Hastings. The black crepe of the housekeeper's gown gave an irritating rustle that set Lucien's teeth on edge.
Set between a pair of rooms on the upmost level, the conservatory wielded a view of the city. Nothing dangerous lurked within it, only a slender young woman with her raven-dark hair curled up in an elegant chignon and pearl earrings dangling from her ears. In the years since their disastrous first meeting, Lucien had begun to think of her as cold and frigid. It was somewhat disconcerting to come face-to-face with her again and realize how lovely she was. Younger than he'd remembered, too. Dangerously attractive, with that full, stubborn mouth that drew a man to think of kisses, and the tiny beauty mark on her cheek. She sat on a white wrought iron chair, at a similar setting, and sipped a steaming cup of tea as she peered through the glass walls of the conservatory. She didn't seem to have noticed his arrival.
Before he could look his fill—assess her, in truth—Mrs. Hastings cleared her throat. "Madam," she said, "his lordship has come to take tea with you."
As if either of them intended anything so civilized.
He'd sworn to serve as her Shield Companion, which meant he was bound to protect her with his life and his power. Bound to obey her too, which would leave him at a distinct disadvantage. If he tried to break his oath, his own power would consume him and leave him little more than the shattered hulk they already thought him to be. Cold sweat dampened the back of his neck at the thought of being under her command. Lord Rathbourne had taught him what being under another's control meant, but what choice did he have? To rot in Bedlam?
The moment Miss Martin's blue eyes locked on him, he felt a jolt all the way through his body. They were very nearly violet eyes, in this setting, with rain dampening the windows, and her lavender gown bringing out the highlights in her irises. He could remember the first time he'd ever seen her, at a gathering several years ago. She'd taken his breath away, for a moment, and he'd had to meet her, begging an introduction from his friend, Wetherby. She'd been cool then, and very nearly discourteous, though Lucien hadn't understood what he'd done at the time. Still didn't know, in fact. For some strange reason, she'd taken an instant dislike to him, and they'd never moved past that fact.
