Page 103 of A Deal with the Devil

Her eyes stung, and she pulled him down closer to kiss him because it was all she wanted and because she did not want to explain why she was being weepy and ridiculous. No one had ever made her feel protected. And she was very much afraid she would crave it for the rest of her life, the way she knew she would crave his touch. His body. The way he looked at her, like she was a curiosity he meant to keep for himself. And she was equally afraid—more afraid—that if she said any of it out loud, he would feel obligated in some way. And that might actually break her, far quicker than her family, than her sister, than Portsmouth and his men.

“If you are thinking that hard right now, I must be doing something wrong,” Devil said. She shook her head, wrapping her leg around his. He kissed her deeply, slowly, before pulling back. “What’s going on in that little busy head of yours?”

“Nothing.”

He tilted his head. “Now, I know that’s not true, little liar.”

She glanced away. “I do lie.”

“Kitty?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t care. As long as you don’t lie to me.”

“I’ve done worse,” she admitted even as the building heat inside her body shrieked at her to stop talking. Immediately.

Devil’s smile quirked, flashing that single, tiny dimple so few people had the privilege of seeing. “Kitty?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve done much worse than lying too.”

She nearly smiled back. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just is. I’ve never heard of you attacking someone who did not deserve it. They break faith and you punish them. It’s different.”

His eyes flared, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper in her ear. “And do you want to be punished?”

“No!” Yes. Maybe.

He laughed softly and it did things to her, loosened the muscles in her thighs, tightened the muscles inside her quim until it fluttered.

“I’m trying to tell you something,” she said.

“I’m not your confessor, love. But I’ll hear anything you want to tell me.” He wove the fingers of his free hand into her hair and tightened, pulling her head back. “Go on.”

There was no sympathy in his face, no pity.

It helped. It was exactly what she needed.

Even the hint of softness hidden under the stern patience.

“I…blackmailed my only real friend.” She had never said so out loud before. Had never looked at it so starkly.

He searched her face, and she couldn’t tell if he was surprised or disgusted or bored. Or if he already knew about it. “Tell me.”

“I thought she had money to spare and I wanted to take Evie away. I was desperate. Stupid. Selfish.”

“Also loving, loyal. Protective.”

She shook her head. “That’s no excuse. I scared her. I didn’t mean to.” Clara always seemed so self-possessed. Sharp. “I really thought… Well, I guess we all hide parts of ourselves. And I didn’t go through with it,” she rushed to add. She never even went to the spot where she had told Clara to leave the money in exchange for keeping her secret that she was the infamous author known as the Nightingale. “Not in the end. I couldn’t.”

“When was this?”

“At your Devil’s Night.”