Charlie was certain he was going to die. It wasn’t just the three boys chasing him. It wasn’t the tough man who had watched him weeping as he sucked some depraved old man’s cock in the mouth of the alley, then robbed him of the pennies the bastard had given him. It wasn’t even the endless nights spent huddling in shadows, praying the thieving gangs or constables wouldn’t find him.
Charlie was certain he was going to die, because everything had happened so fast that he hadn’t been able to brace himself or plan for his tumble into darkness.
He was hungry. It had been more than a day since he’d last eaten. His brain felt heavy because he hadn’t dared to fall asleep for fear someone would slit his throat in the dark for what little he had left and he’d never wake up. His body was sore from cold and stone and the callousness of strangers.
He was definitely going to die.
The three bullies who had chased him from the market, where he’d tried to snatch an apple from a cart but had fumbled the basic act, caught up to him and threw him into the muck of yet another dark, damp London street. He didn’t know wherehe was, didn’t know what time of day it was, and barely knew himself anymore.
As the largest of the boys sat on him, pummeling him while he shielded his head with his arms and sobbed, the voice that had been getting louder within him for the last week told him he should just give up. Let them take his shoes. Let them steal his money and his clothes and his dignity. What did he care anymore?
He’d been found out for who he was.
This was the cost of the fire in his soul.
He was a breath away from surrender, holding onto the last shreds of hope with his ragged fingernails. He would never see his mother and sister again anyhow, so why not just give them his last breath and disappear into the muck all around him?
“I’ll call the police if you don’t let him go.”
The wilted and fallen petals of Charlie’s soul suddenly reformed themselves into a bud at the rich, tenor voice somewhere above him.
The pressure on his chest lifted a few seconds later. Charlie didn’t trust it. He didn’t think it could be real. Those boys were out for blood, and they weren’t going to leave until they got it.
Except they went away. His mind was still trying to catch up to how and why, but they were definitely gone.
And thenhewas there.
“They’re gone,” his savior said, lowering himself by Charlie’s side and touching him. “You’re safe now.”
It couldn’t be. Charlie shook his head and hid. No one in their right mind would do anything to help him. Hadn’t the last month on the streets taught him that? Hadn’t his entire life before that proved it?
“Come on,” the man said, still touching him andlookingat him now. “Up you come. Let’s see the damage.”
Charlie could have hidden forever, but the way the man stood and pulled him to his feet brooked no argument.
And that felt good, like an anchor in a storm.
Like a fiery beacon leading him inexorably through the rain to dash him against the rocks before he reached the shore.
He could smell the man above the stench of the street refuse and his own, shameful body odor. He smelled of soap and fine cloth and everything Charlie liked. He had a steady presence and a strength that radiated from him, too.
When he grasped Charlie’s chin and forced him to look up and meet his eyes, Charlie knew.
The fire within him roared to life.
He couldn’t breathe for a moment. He could only stare.
Warm, clever eyes. Neat, soft brown hair. Lips that could do wonderful, terrible things. A small mole near the back of his jaw on the left side. A spot on his neck where he might have cut himself shaving several days ago.
Sadness and tension.
Arousal.
Charlie couldn’t look away, and not just because the man still held his chin like he wouldn’t ever let go. He couldn’t look away because the man didn’t belong where he was. He didn’t belong any more than Charlie did, and that was more than Charlie’s exhausted, defeated heart could puzzle out at the moment.
“I have a proposition for you,” the man said. Charlie couldn’t recall whether he’d said something else since helping him to his feet and didn’t know if he’d embarrassed himself by just gaping at the man. Until he asked, “Have you ever had your photograph taken?”
It took a second for the words to string together and make sense in his mind. It took even longer for him to make the question make sense.
