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The man says nothing.
“Not me alone, not Edward alone. Both of us.”
Still nothing.
“Why?” she asks.
He laughs, but the sound is strained. “You lot really don’t know what you’ve stepped into, do you?”
The barn goes quiet, as my stomach tightens. Lazarus no longer appears amused and my brother stands slowly.
Olive’s eyes narrow, “then enlighten us.”
The prisoner looks from one face to another, calculating.
“You think you’re frightening because you kill men in alleys and barns.” His gaze lingers on me and Alcott. “You two think you’re special because people whisper about the Twisted Twins.”
My fingers curl, nails digging into the palms. Beside me, Alcott goes very still.
The prisoner notices, then dares to smile, “your master should have kept you on a shorter leash.”
The air leaves my lungs. Olive turns slightly toward me.
Master.
One word, and the barn shifts beneath my feet. The Collector’s voice coils through memory.
Faster, dog.
I force myself not to react. The prisoner’s smile widens. “There it is.”
Lazarus steps forward. “You should choose your next sentence extremely carefully.”
“Why?” the man asks. “Because you’ll kill me? He’ll do worse.”
“He?” Olive asks.
The prisoner’s gaze slides to her, something ugly enters his expression. “Oh, Widow. You have no idea, do you? You’ve caught his attention, not admiration. That is ownership waiting for opportunity.”
My blood turns cold and I take one step toward him. Olive lifts a hand without looking at me, a silent command. Stop. So I halt in my tracks and hate that I do.
The prisoner laughs softly. “Beautiful thing, aren’t you? Enough to distract this dog.”
My control fractures. I have him by the throat before anyone can stop me, the slick sweat from his skin sliding across my fingers as I grip his throat, hard.
The chair scrapes backward. His breath chokes off beneath my grip. I see red. “Do not speak about her.”
Alcott appears at my side, one hand gripping my wrist.
“Edward,” the sound of my name is quiet. Careful.
Not a warning, but a reminder. I release the man, he gasps, coughing violently. Olive watches me, there is no fear in her face. The prisoner drags in air, then spits another laugh.
“If it serves you right,” he rasps, “you’ll listen to your master and do as you’re told. Stop getting sidetracked by pretty women.”
Lazarus’s sickle appears with a soft rasp of metal. He twirls it menacingly in his grasp. “Pretty women have names,” he says.
Olive steps closer to the prisoner, placing herself directly before him. Rolling up her sleeves but never breaking eye contact with the man with a cold and calculated stare. “And this pretty woman is going to burn your employer’s empire to the ground.”
