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I stare at the body. Then at Lazarus. Then at Alcott.

“What,” I ask slowly, “have you done?”

Lazarus glances down as though only now remembering the dead man between his hands.

“Ahhhhh, Yes. That.” He gestures.

Alcott smooths the front of his coat. “We’re helping.”

“You’re helping?”

“Indeed.” They state simultaneously.

“With my mark?”

Lazarus winces. “When you phrase it in that tone, I fear the gesture sounds less romantic.”

“It was not romantic,” Alcott says.

“It was a little romantic,” Lazarus replies, shrugging his shoulders.

“It was strategic.” Alcott’s eyes narrow with his statement.

“It may be both,” Lazarus quips.

I lift one hand. They fall silent.

The anger rising within me is hot, sharp, and entirely unreasonable considering the man before us deserved death. That does not matter.

He was mine. My work. My hunt. My game. Men have taken enough from me. I did not expect the newest thieves to arrive carrying a corpse and compliments.

“I spent four dates on this man,” I say.

Alcott’s expression turns thoughtful. “That is unfortunate.”

“Four dates,” I state once more, emphasizing my irritation.

Lazarus lowers Lord Mire’s shoulders carefully to the rug. “I can see how that would be irritating.”

“I listened to him discuss hunting dogs for forty-seven minutes.”

Alcott’s mouth tightens with sympathy. “Barbaric.”

“I endured his negative opinions regarding women’s education.”

Lazarus grimaces. “Vile.”

“I allowed him to kiss my gloved hand.” Both men straighten at my words.

The air changes. Not guilt, jealousy.

Unfiltered jealousy.

Lazarus’s eyes darken. “He touched you?”

“Do not sound offended. You murdered him,” I scold.

“Yes, but apparently not soon enough,” Lazarus mumbles aloud.