Her pulse rioted. “Maxen, for the love of wax, Fury...”
“Calliope, for the love of my sanity, Turner,” he returned.
Her lips parted, but before she could say anything, he kissed her again, sweeping away all rationality until she was lost, wholly and completely, beneath the onslaught of him. By the time he drew back, leaving her dazed and panting beneath him, Calliope had forgotten every sensible reason she’d had to leave.
And stars help her. How was she supposed to care?
*
Maxen leaned overthe desk in his room at the tavern, papers spread in chaotic disarray before him. Columns of figures bled together, black ink smudged by his restless fingers, the abominable accounts staring back like a damn battlefield. He had neglected them for days. Ever since Calliope had stepped, uninvited, into his world and left him unwilling to think about anything else.
Damn it.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, glaring at a ledger that stubbornly refused to make sense. It ought to have his complete focus. He was, after all, responsible for keeping order over a realm most men of his birth would never dream to rule. But numbers, profits, collections—all of it seemed a pale, bloodless thing compared to the warmth of Calliope in his bed this morning.
He leaned back in the chair and shut his eyes. He had not wanted to let her go. Hadn’t wanted to leave her to her lodgings tonight, alone. The beast inside him had snarled at the very thought of it, urging him to keep her close, to keep herhis.
And yet, urgent matters required his attention. Debts to tally, shipments to account for, men to pay. Losses to count. Retribution to plot. He told himself he would see to each quickly, neatly, so that tomorrow he might call on her with his conscience clear.
Tomorrow.
He shifted in the chair, eyes snapping open to slide to the clock. Four hours. It had only been four blasted hours.
That was enough time, surely. Enough time for her to catch her breath?
Or was it too soon?
Might she want more space? He thought of her blush this morning, her startled laugh, the way she’d clutched him as if her modesty might yet be salvaged. Or had that been a slap? Regardless, she might prefer a night of peace. A night without him looming in doorways, stealing her protests with kisses.
His jaw tightened, hating the thought of separating even for a night. Should he wait? Could he wait? Was the threat truly over? He could use that as an excuse...
His eyes fixed once more on the clock.
Four hours.
Damnation. He was already halfway to the door when it swung open and Drake strode in. The arse didn’t even bother with greetings. Just jabbed a folded parchment into his chest and crossed his arms.
Maxen arched a brow. “You look like you need a drink.”
“You’re the one who’s going to need one.”
No words a man wanted to hear. “Why? Did something happen with Peregrine?”
Drake shook his head. “He’s still trussed up like a chicken in the dungeon.”
“Good. Let him stew.” He turned the paper over, examining it. “So what is it?”
“News from Dare. Came this morning.”
Tension coiled. The Earl of Dare. Drake’s cousin. Given his brother’s face, this wouldn’t be good. Still, he unfolded the parchment, eyes skimming.
And stopped.
Then read it again.
His eyes lifted to Drake. “What am I looking at?”
“The client list of the solicitor, Fitz.”
