There could be many reasons for that. One of which being that she simply didn’t see Peregrine as a threat. Neither did the hound. But then, the hound hadn’t seenhimas a threat either.
“Where is she now?” Maxen asked.
“I followed them to Talon’s.”
“Talon’s? I haven’t heard of the place before.” And that was never a good bloody thing.
“A new inn on the outskirts,” Saint clarified.
Bloody Peregrine. Talon’s? He scoffed. About as subtle as their tavern’s name. He also noted that the blackguard perhaps thought he had taken her out of their territory. He would soon learn a valuable lesson: All that touched Brighton, touched him.
Maxen was already moving.
Saint caught his arm. “There might be more beneath the surface here.”
He met his brother’s gaze. “I know.” People who ran usually had something to run from. She was either fleeing from him or something, someone, else.
Saint slowly let go of his arm. “So long as you know.”
“Even if my judgment is clouded, it’s not bloody lost.”
His brother nodded, stepping back. “Good, then.”
Drake stepped up to his side. “What do you want to do now?”
Maxen’s lips curved. “Now we go retrieve our missing lamb.”
“Christ,” Drake muttered. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”
Chapter Fourteen
Calliope perched onthe edge of the narrow bed by the window, Prince sprawled at her feet. Her gaze drifted over her room but fastened on nothing in particular. The air smelled faintly floral—rosewater, perhaps—but beneath another scent, something odd. Musty. It made her wrinkle her nose every time she caught it.
She still couldn’t believe she’d fled like that.
I really left.
The valise at her feet was gaping open from her last attempt to take stock of her belongings, though she never touched them, even though she’d reached for them about a hundred times. It was just that her hands needed something to do. Anything other than fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve or brushing over the spot on her breast where her heart had once been neatly contained. Now that place throbbed wildly.
Prince let out a dissatisfied whine.
“I know,” she said softly. “You’re still judging me, aren’t you?”
He didn’t so much as blink at her.
And truly, who could blame him? Her grand plan had been to leave, no—escape, had sounded clever. Daring. Necessary. Except she’d overlooked one rather glaring flaw: she had no blazing idea where to go next.
Brighton was no longer safe for her dream.
London had never been safe.
And everywhere else on the map of England felt more like exile than anything else. She hadn’t packed hope. She hadn’t packed direction. She hadn’t packed a dream long in the making.
Not exactly a plan.
She sighed and dropped her head into her hands and allowed herself exactly three heartbeats of despair. On the fourth, she straightened.I’ve lived through worse.This hurdle, she could survive. She just needed to think. To plot a course of action. That was what she’d always done. Quiet survival, clever pivots, always finding a way.
Except . . .
