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Chapter 17

There are not many moments when one’s life flashes before one’s eyes. This was one of those moments for Ian.

Turned out, he didn’t have much of a life to lament over. Only one thing stood out loud and clear in his mind.

Helen.

All his life, he’d tried to be enough for his father. He studied hard, he was a dutiful son, and yet nothing was enough to earn his sire’s approval. Then he rebelled and almost drank himself to death. When he had discovered spying, he spent the rest of his life trying to impress his surrogate father—the King.

None of it mattered when taken into perspective. He was good at what he did, and he enjoyed risking his life on dangerous missions, but he didn’t care about any of it. Not really.

It all had no meaning beyond getting satisfaction for a brief moment in life. Satisfaction from the adrenaline-driven job, and satisfaction from praise for a job well done.

That was his life.

Until Helen.

Somehow, in this moment of brief self-reflection, his entire life was condensed into three long seconds. One second was his life prior to Helen. And the rest was filled with the moments he’d spent with her.

And now it was over.

It was unforgivable, truly, that he’d gotten caught. He had known that something was wrong. His skin had been covered in chills, his hair stood on end. And yet, he’d ignored it. It was as if somewhere deep down, he’d wanted to get caught.

A ridiculous thought.

But there was no time to lament over that either.

He ducked and hit the pistol-holding hand with his fist, sending the weapon flying through the air. It hit the wall and landed with a loud clatter on the floor a few feet away.

Ian only had the time to step away before a fist flew at his face.

Ian staggered back, then ducked from another blow aimed at his face and planted a punch from the side to the assailant’s cheek.

Before he understood what was going on, a kick to his back sent him flying to the other side of the wall.

Ian crashed against the side table, a vase rattling and rolling toward the edge. He picked it up and threw it at his attacker. The latter ducked, the vase shattering against the wall.

The noise started waking the household and a series of footsteps started moving toward the fighting pair.

Ian wasn’t given a moment to contemplate the predicament, though, as his assailant charged at him, throwing a series of wild punches. Ian dodged and weaved, landing a few counterpunches of his own, using anything in his way to either attack or thwart his attacker.

His assailant was a skilled fighter. Ian couldn’t see his face in the dark hall, nor did the attacker make any noise to help identify him.

It was safe to assume, however, that he was fighting the viscount. If it was him, then he didn’t waste his well-equipped training room.

And if it was indeed him, no more proof was necessary. He was part of the Shadows’ society.

They were told to be quick on their feet, elegant in their movements, and vicious in their fighting. And whoever was in front of him was all that and more.

Ian was a prolific fencer and a well-trained fighter himself. Yet he was barely managing to keep on his feet and thwart the attack directed at him.

He was out of his element. He was a spy, not a vigilante. He knew how to squeeze himself in and out of tight spaces. He could memorize floor plans, documents, and people’s appearances with astounding precision. And he could ingratiate himself with almost anyone.

And although well-coordinated and skillful, fighting for his life in a dark, narrow corridor against a more experienced assailant could spell trouble.

The viscount grabbed Ian by the lapels and threw him into the wall. Ian hit his head against the corner of the painting and winced in pain.

The sounds outside of the corridor got louder now, voices joining the chorus of marching steps.