Calliope Turner had appeared in his world like a storm, and now she was wearing trousers tight enough to drive a man like him to prayer and had the grace to take space in his tavern as if she’d always belonged there.
She didn’t. She couldn’t.
Except, she did fit. Too well. Too damn easily.
And she wasn’t afraid. Not of him. Not of his brothers. Not even of what Brighton could do to a woman like her. He rubbed at his face, dragging his hands down until his fingertips pressed into the muscle of his neck.
He needed sleep. A plan. Instead, all he could see was her. The way she’d spoken to his brothers. The light in her eyes when she challenged him. That smile she wore like a weapon—sharp and bright and utterly undoing.
He cursed under his breath.
She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be involved. Shouldn’t be looking at him like she saw something worth seeing. He didn’t have the space for softness. He never had. Not since—
He clenched his fists. No. He wouldn’t think about that now.
He got up, paced the room once, then went to the basin in the corner and splashed cold water on his face. It did little to clear the fog.
What did she see when she looked at him now that she didn’t believe he looked so “terrifying?” Still a beast? A monster?
He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure she did either.
And yet she returned without a fuss.
She made him forget. That was the danger. When she was near, things quieted. Enough to make him want more of what the devil would surely tear away from him later. And more was not something he could afford in this life of his.
Someone knocked on the door.
He turned, body tense, already half-reaching for the blade at his waist. No one ever knocked. Not that soft.
A note slipped under the door.
What the bloody hell was this now? He moved to pick it up and unfolded it, scowling.
Careful.
No name signed.
Who the devil would have the audacity to warn him to be careful? No one. No one with intentions he trusted. But whoever it was had reach in Fury’s, where he employed several boys and a few others to see to the daily necessities.
Maxen didn’t enjoy their flair for theatrics, whoever it was.
His fingers started to itch again.
He flicked the note onto his desk.
The itch over his scars intensified.
He wasalwayscareful. And thorough. And cautious. So excessively cautious, he made caution itself seem a reckless pursuit. He needed to vent. He reached for his gloves when another knock on the door came.
His eyes narrowed as he straightened. Was it another damn note? At this rate he would have to flog every boy in his employ.
But to his surprise, the door pushed open.
Calliope filled the frame.
Maxen froze. By God, she looked soft. Inviting. And those damn trousers.
Her gaze dropped—first to his bare hands, then to his bare chest. He saw realization dawn on her face as she took in all his scars.
