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He pauses in the doorway, one hand pressed against his chest. “I have not even spoken.”

“You do not need to,” I retort.

“How terribly dismissive.” Alcott pouts, jutting out his bottom lip.

“Whatever it is, no.” My words give no room for negotiation.

Alcott removes his gloves one finger at a time, entirely too pleased with himself. His white-blond hair remains perfectly slicked back despite the late hour, though a faint streak of mud mars one polished boot.

He has been somewhere he should not have been.

Doing something he should not have done. With someone I have spent weeks trying not to think about.

“Would you like to guess whom I saw this evening?” he asks.

My hand stills over the ledger. “No.”

“Liar,” he jests.

“Alcott.” His name is a growl from my throat.

“Olive,” he says, savoring her name as though it were sugared fruit upon his tongue. “Our delectable little Widow.”

The pencil snaps in my hand. His eyes brighten, followed by his smile widening, “there he is.”

I push back from the table slowly. “What did you do?”

“Helped.” One simple word that sends my blood boiling.

“Helped?” I hiss, narrowing my eyes.

“With her mark,” he states the words so proudly, I scowl.

The room goes dangerously quiet. Alcott tosses his gloves onto the counter and slips onto the stool across from me as though we are discussing weather instead of a woman’s life.

“She had selected a truly dreadful specimen. Lord Halston Mire. Tied to The Collector’s syndicate, naturally. Lazarus and I thought it best to make ourselves useful,” he explains with nonchalance, and my scowl deepens.

I stare at him. For several seconds, I cannot seem to form words.

“You went near her.” I’m certain that smoke is escaping my ears at this point, for my body has grown so heated, I may rupture.

“Yes.” His cocky eyebrow lifts in challenge.

“After I told you not to,” I seethe through my teeth.

“You are forever telling me not to do things.” This isn’t a game; he cannot be playing with her like this. The anger is threatening to bubble over, and I may strike my brother for this insolence.

“After I told you The Collector wants her?” As I explain, Alcott’s smile fades slightly.

Only slightly.

“Yes, I recall.” His answer is more reserved than his prior playful tone.

“Do you?” My voice rises before I can stop it. “Because from where I stand, you seem to have mistaken a death sentence for an evening’s entertainment.”

His expression sharpens. I stand. The chair scrapes harshly against the floorboards.

“You know what he is,” I say. “You know what happens when something catches his interest. He does not simply take. He studies. He dismantles. He ruins. And you—” My throat tightens around the words. “You went to her.”