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I look pointedly between Edward and Alcott. “Remember, they both did.”

Lazarus opens his mouth, then closes it. Alcott laughs. Edward’s thumb brushes once against my wrist.

I smile slowly. “Perhaps, gentlemen, you should all learn to share.”

For once, all three of them fall silent. How delightful.

Then Lazarus’s grin spreads, slow and dangerous. Edward’s eyes darken and Alcott’s smile turns positively wicked. I realize, with a thrill that should frighten me far more than it does, that I have not been caught at all. I have chosen this outcome.

25. The World Narrows to Her - Edward

What Do You Want From Me?

There are moments in a man’s life when the world narrows to a single breath, to a single hand, for a single woman. For me, that woman is Olive. It is foolish to think such things. Catastrophic, perhaps. Yet, as she stands beneath the dark beams of Lazarus’s private room, dressed in black silk and candlelight, I understand with sudden, terrible clarity that there is no world in which I do not care for her. I have tried to carve distance between us. I have tried to make silence a shield.

Convincing myself that wanting her was no different from placing a blade in the Collector’s hand and inviting him to cut out whatever remained of my soul, but then she looks at me. Everything ceases, from the ticking clock upon the mantel, the rain against the window and the dull ache beneath my ribs where fear has made a home. All of it stills. Only Olive remains.

Olive, with her chin lifted and her eyes bright from weeks of color returning to them. Olive, who has survived men who mistook ownership for affection. Olive, who looks at the three of us as though she has not yet decided whether to love us, kill us, or make us earn the privilege of standing near her.

I would accept any order she chose.

Lazarus moves behind her, dark hair loose around his shoulders, rings flashing as he holds a length of crimson rope between his hands. We stand around his vast room adorned by hanging onyx silk drapes throughout the ceiling. Tension coils around all of us as we wait in anticipation.

“Are you certain?” he asks her, utterly serious.

Olive glances over her shoulder at him. “If I were not, you would know.”

His smile softens. “I would.”

Alcott stands near the armchair, sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes sharp with fascination but no cruelty. For once, he is quiet. Not because he has nothing to say, but because he understands the gravity of the moment.

Trust requires silence sometimes. I remain near the window, hands clasped behind my back so tightly my knuckles ache. Jealousy lives in me still, I will not pretend otherwise. It stirs when Lazarus touches her waist. It sparks when Alcott steps close enough to brush a curl from her cheek. It snarls at the thought of any hand upon her that is not mine, but the feeling does not own me. Not tonight. Because beneath the jealousy is something stranger, there is understanding.

Lazarus gives her wonder, he brings color to her like an offering. Grandiose, absurd games, and banter, and impossible evenings built purely to make her smile. He is ridiculous and devoted and would set a ballroom full of monsters aflame if she sighed in their direction.

Alcott gives her challenge, he meets the sharp machinery of her mind without fear. He delights in her danger, not because he underestimates it but because he recognizes it. He watches her as though she is both question and answer, and God help the man who tries to make her smaller.

And I— I do not know what I give her. Protection, or steadiness. A place to set down the blade when she is tired of holding it. Or possibly I only offer her the ugliest parts of myself and pray she does not flinch. Olive’s gaze finds mine across the room.

“Edward.” One word.

My ruin. My salvation. I cross to her before I can think better of it. Lazarus pauses, the rope loose in his hands as I feel Alcott watching me carefully. Olive simply waits.

“What do you need?” I ask her.

Her expression shifts as though the question matters more than any declaration could.

“I need you to stop standing so far away,” she proclaims. My throat tightens as I swallow through my discomfort and step closer. Close enough to touch, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin in the candlelit air. Her hand lifts, and I meet it halfway.

Her fingers slide between mine. There. The world narrows again. Lazarus begins with care.

He moves slowly, explaining each motion before he makes it, watching Olive’s face for the smallest change. The rope circles her torso, then her hips, then her thighs in intricate patterns that look less like restraint and more like art. Crimson against black silk. Knots placed with intention. Pressure distributed with practiced precision.

“Too tight?” he asks.

“No,” she replies.

“Too loose?”