Each method is a new key to the same door: confession, then the drop, then the dark. My thighs clench and heat pools low, better than any brothel tumble.
The fire settles into embers, and outside, dusk bruises the sky. Ada waits at the stables, but the thought of De-Vil’s girls—Scarlet’s wicked mouth, Raven’s cruel fingers—sparks fresh hunger. I could march in, pin one to the velvet chaise, and coax a breathless, “Yes, I’m guilty,” between gasps.
I fold the papers, tuck them inside my jerkin, and bank the coals. Tomorrow, Maude learns what confession tastes like. Tonight, I ride for pleasure.
I shoulder through the side door of De-Vil’s Delights and the air hits me like a slap: perfume, sweat, and the copper tang of blood. Girls cluster in the foyer, skirts clutched, eyes red. Someone’s sobbing loudly. My pulse spikes, a war drum in my ears.
De’s voice slices through the chaos. “Evie, thank Christ, Sparrow’s?—”
“Where?” The word detonates, low and lethal. De’s mouth snaps shut, her pupils blowing wide.
A weak laugh drifts from the bar. “Still breathin’, love.” Sparrow is perched on a stool, one arm cradled in a blood-spotted sling, her left eye swollen to a purple slit. The sight is a match to dry tinder. Heat floods my veins, white-hot.
I’m across the room in three strides. “Who.”
She tries for a grin; it cracks like thin ice. “Some silk-coated bastard swore triple pay. Thought the coin was worth the risk.” Her voice wavers, then splinters. “He pinned me, Evie. Said I was his little bird to break.” A tear slips, carving a clean line through the grime on her cheek. “I begged. He laughed.”
The bottle she offers trembles in her good hand. I snatch it, swallow fire, and slam it down hard enough to spider the wood. “Name.”
Sparrow flinches. “De’s got it. Minor lord, fancy crest?—”
I’m already moving. De scrambles after me, heels clacking. “Evie, wait?—”
I whirl, fist slamming the wall beside her head, plaster raining down around her. “You let this happen under your roof?”
“No! He paid, he swore—” She swallows whatever else when she sees my face.
“Office. Now.”
Upstairs, the ledger lies open on her desk. I flip pages with fingers that itch to close around a throat. There: Lord Percival Hale, third son, blah blah. Address scrawled beneath. I memorise it and go to leave.
De reaches for me. “Evie?—”
“Lock the doors tonight.” My voice is winter. I leave De’s office and look down over the banister. “No one in or out ‘til I’m back.”
Sparrow’s waiting at the foot of the stairs, swaying. I run down and catch her before she folds. “I’ll bring you his tongue,” I call back to De. “And I’ll bring you his heart,” I whisper into Sparrow’s hair.
She clings to my sleeve, knuckles white. “Just come back to us soon.”
I press a kiss to her bruised temple, tasting salt and fear. “I promise, little bird. When the moon’s high, the hawk learns what it means to be prey.”
Chapter Seven
I run.I run so fucking fast, the wind rips tears from my eyes and the city smears into streaks of torchlight and shadow. Ada, the witch-work, tomorrow’s confessions—they’re all gone. Only the namePercival Halepounds in my skull like a war drum. I’m going to drag this filth into the dark and make him bleed. Again. And again. I know exactly where he cowers, and he’ll never hear the blade coming.
I tear through black alleys, shoulder-checking drunks, trampling beggars, scattering whores like rats. Lanterns swing, and faces blur into screaming masks. He’s mine.
Night swallows the sky. The streets choked with flickering lights clutched like talismans. His house looms—gaudy brick, iron gates yawning open. I’m there. I don’t know yet how I’ll carve him, but I’mstarvingfor red.
I kick the front door, the wood detonating inward, hinges shrieking like dying pigs. My monster is out and I don’t give a fuck who sees. A crash upstairs—someone’s home. I storm the hall, then up the stairs, boots crashing, and explode into the bedroom.
A woman screams from the bed, sheet clutched to her throat, eyes bulging.
“Where is he?” I roar.
She jabs a shaking finger at the door to the next room.
“Get the fuck out. Keep your mouth shut or—” I notice it’s Sid, De’s girl. “He broke Sparrow’s arm tonight, Sid. What the fuck are you doing with him?” She vanishes before answering me, her bare feet slapping down the stairs.
