Page 118 of Devil in Her Details

Bloody Reaper.

Where had he read such rot anyway?

But he wished his brother hadn’t said that. The arse was an idiot and a menace and, infuriatingly, the most clear-sighted person in any given room. Occasionally. When he didn’t choose to sputter nonsense left and right.

“I’ll go,” Dagger said roughly. “I’ll go to London.”

The silence was immediate.

One glimpse.

Just one more.

He looked up at his brothers, and six faces stared back at him with varying degrees of poorly concealed relief, surprise, and satisfaction. Reaper’s expression in particular needed to be wiped off his face immediately.

“Don’t,” Dagger warned him.

Reaper pressed his lips together. The effort was visible. Little shite.

“Saint and I will go,” Dagger addressed Maxen. “We find Deveraux, we get ahead of whatever our uncle is planning, and we come back.” He picked up his glass, drained it, and set it down. “That’s all it is.”

Plus his one, last, final look.

Drake leaned over and swiped his empty glass. “No more liquor, then.”

“Fine.”

Reaper lasted four more seconds. “And if the road to Deveraux happens to take you past a certain duke’s townhouse in—”

“Reaper.” Saint’s voice. Soft and final.

Reaper subsided with a shrug. He’d gotten his point across.

Dagger pushed back from the table and stood. His legs somehow felt steadier. “When do we leave?”

“A day or two,” Saint said.

No. He wasn’t bloody waiting a single second longer. “Fine, then, you can follow. I’m leaving now.”

Saint scowled, muttered, “Then we’re leaving now.”

Dagger’s whole body nearly sagged in relief. Nothing had changed. He simply needed to see her well. That was all. One look, and maybe the madness that pressed at his head would clear. Maybe. Maybe if he saw her happy, he might finally be able to let go.

Chapter Twenty-Five

What did a tin of ointment, a dagger belt, and a white linen shirt all have in common?

Dagger.

Dagger Fury.

Their entire chapter amounted to these three things spread on her bed. If one counted memory, that would be four. If she counted her loss of virtue, that would be five. But those things she couldn’t spread out before her. And the belt would at some point be posted to Brighton, which would only leave her with two items.

Two measly items.

They wouldn’t even last her forever.

The salve would be used, melt, or go bad. The shirt would wear out and, at some point, discolor and tear. The rest, well, they didn’t need to be mentioned.