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The perfect diversion.

“Now!” Shelby hissed and gave Roxina a light shove forward.

Inhaling sharply, she bolted. Her skirts and borrowed cloak whipped around her legs as she sprinted into the night.

Her heart pounded.

Brisk air burned her throat.

Dash raced beside her, his sleek body a silent blur in the darkness, his paws whispering against the ground.

She didn’t look back.

Mrs. Beale’s shrieks soared into an ear-splitting crescendo.

A crash rang through the night, followed by another shout—this one sharper, angrier.

A chill slithered up Roxina’s spine.

Had anyone spotted them?

She pushed harder, breath burning, fear making her gait awkward and ungainly. The short distance to her cottage seemed so far away.

Shelby ran beside her, his breath coming fast, his long strides barely making a sound against the compacted dirt.

How did he run so silently?

“Faster,” he urged, his voice low and steady.

Something rustled nearby.

The scrape of a boot against gravel?

Roxina’s pulse jackknifed.

Their abductors or simply a concerned neighbor?

Dash let out a low, warning growl, his muscles coiled, ready to strike.

Shelby gripped Roxina’s wrist.

“Hurry, just a little farther,” he breathed, fierce and unyielding.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Roxina ran toward her cottage.

Ran as though the devil himself pursued her.

Because perhaps—he did.

ELEVEN

Roxina’s Cottage

Montpelier Row, Blackheath

Several trying minutes later