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Darkness’s mouth curves. A slow, cruel thing. Tears burn at the edges of my eyes, and I hate him more for seeing them.

“Leave her out of this,” I whisper. “Leave her out of our life. She is not a game.”

Darkness juts his lower lip in a mockery of pity. “Oh, how tragic.”

“Alcott.” The name is a warning.

Or a prayer.

Darkness leans closer. “Alcott found her very attractive, you know. His thoughts were quite colorful. Lewd, even.”

My hand tightens around his collar.

He laughs softly. “And yours?”

I release him as though burned. Darkness smooths his waistcoat with delicate fingers and hops down from the stool.

“You may pretend this is noble,” he says, walking toward the door. “But we both know better.”

I do not answer. He pauses in the doorway.

“You do not want her safe, Edward.”

His eyes gleam in the dim kitchen light.

“You want her close.”

Then he leaves me alone with the broken glass, the scalding water, and the dreadful knowledge that he is right.

I stay away for precisely six hours. An impressive accomplishment, considering I think of her every minute. By nightfall, I am standing across the street from La Sirene like a damned fool. I tell myself I am not here for her. I am here because the Collector may send someone else. I am here because Jack’s death will stir unrest through every dark corner of Lockham. I am here because Olive made enemies long before she walked into our shop with a pistol and turned my miserable world inside out. All reasonable explanations. All lies.

Through the front windows, La Sirene glows with amber light. Laughter spills into the street each time the door opens. Music follows. Women move inside like shadows dressed in silk and jewels.

Then I see her.

Olive exits through a side door wearing a dark cloak and gloves, her posture straight despite the late hour. She speaks briefly to a woman named, Madame Elisa, then starts down the path behind the building. Alone.

My heart lurches.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

I follow. Not closely. Never closely enough for her to feel hunted. That distinction matters to me, though I am not certain it should. A better man would turn around. A better man would respect the boundary she’d drawn and leave her to her peace.

I have never claimed to be a better man.

The path curls beyond Le Havre and disappears into a small stretch of woods. Her home sits hidden behind the trees, tucked away from the noise of the establishments she built and protects. It suits her.

Private. Guarded. Beautiful in a way that feels earned. A lantern burns on the upper balcony.

I remain beneath the cover of the trees as she enters the house. Several minutes pass before a light blooms behind the balcony doors.

There. Only a glimpse. A silhouette moving behind a folding screen. I should look away. For once in my life, I do the decent thing. I turn my face toward the trees and close my eyes. The image remains anyway. Not of skin. Not of anything indecent.

Only the shape of her presence. The quiet ritual of her existing in a space that belongs to her. A world that The Collector has not yet reached. A world where my hands have not yet ruined anything.

I want that for her. Safety. Distance. Peace. I can protect her from afar. The thought settles over me with the comfort of a lie. Yes. I can do this.

I can watch the perimeter. Learn her routines. Keep danger away without stepping into her life and infecting it with mine.