Done with danger.
Done with anyone who looked at her like she was a threat that needed handling or a pawn to be controlled. Or, God forbid, a man looking at her like she was a secret worth uncovering.
Lord.
He was just such a man.
In fact, he was all of the aforementioned.
And if she didn’t nip her curiosity in the bud, she might start looking for him in every shadow.
Too late, Calliope.
No. Not too late. Rather, just in time.
She sighed, blinking up to the ceiling. Easier said than done. Already her mind catalogued her vials of scented oil. They didn’t bottle the scent of black leather, so how to mirror it?
A deep, low growl rumbled through the room.
Calliope jerked upright. Prince stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on the bedroom door. “Prince?” But the hound didn’t so much as flick an ear at her voice. He growled again, this time deeper, sounding harsh in the quiet night.
She cocked her head to listen.
Calliope heard nothing at first. Nothing after several beats. Then...
A muffled thud.
Her eyes shot wide and she scrambled from her bed to drop to her knees, placing her ear on the ground, listening carefully. Had that come from her place? Downstairs?
Another muffled sound.
For stars’ sake! There was someone in her shop!
What on earth did she do? She couldn’t think past the pulse thundering in her ears. She lifted her head slowly, barely daring to breathe. Prince’s growl remained low, protectively stationed between her and whatever danger prowled below.
Her gaze flew to the window.
Was it too high to jump from? No. She couldn’t jump with Prince. Nor without. The door? Dare she sneak out back? But if she stepped onto the stairwell, she might alert the intruder.
No. No. No.
Could it be Duvessa? Her men? Had they found her? Had she been recognized in town? Followed? Had something happened to Mr. Fitz? Had he betrayed her? Had one of the servants?
She had taken every precaution. She had beencareful. And Mr. Fitz was the last person on earth who’d betray her.
Do you know for certain?
No. There was no one on this earth she could trust with so much certainty. Not beyond any shadow of doubt. She had abandoned her old name, hadn’t contacted anyone from London but Clemence, and even Clemence wrote in riddles. And Mr. Fitz.
Just hang on a little longer.
Years of dealing with Duvessa and those nasty daughters of hers had taught her to keep calm. That calmness meant safety. Meant survival. And so she obeyed the instinct drilled deep into her bones.
Only, it didn’t work.
Calliope! This is not a closet! Or the attic! This is life or death!
Right.
