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“Indiscretions?”
“You think I haven’t protected myself, Thomas? The unexplained staff pregnancies, girls whisked away to the city for ten months, just long enough for any proof to be dealt with. Rumors of your affairs.”
His smile died on his lips. He downed his glass in one gulp and swayed on his feet. “There are other investigators.”
“Not like me there aren’t.”
He snorted. “No, none like you.” He reached for my face.
I batted his hand away, but my simple brush-off ignited a wild rage in his eyes. He lunged. His fingers clamped around my neck. I dug at his grip, trying to pry him off. He pulled me around and drove me against the end of the table, bending me backward. I hadn’t expected the attack—I wasn’t prepared for his strength—but as he pinned me to the table and his gaze turned ravenous, his grip on my neck eased. I swung and caught his jaw under a right hook, staggering him back.
It should have been enough.
“Don’t—” I coughed.
But he was drunk, too far gone. Damn him.
He lunged a second time. I danced right, heading for the end of the table with the knives. His fingers snagged my shirt, jerking me back. I swung wildly, missed, and he slammed into my middle, tackling me backward over the table. Plates and glasses skidded, shattering on the floor. I got a hand between us to lever him off, but his weight pinned me, trapping my right hand between us. His mouth slammed over mine, and when I fought to tear free, his free hand gripped my hair. He was everywhere, hands groping, mouth hot and bitter with wine, his thigh between mine.
Hush, Valentine. It will all be over soon.
A knife gleamed in the corner of my vision. I flung out my left hand, reaching for its handle. Rochefort’s thick fingers tore at my belt, ripping it free. Then his hand was inside, grasping and jerking. Gods, the horror of it—this man meant to take what he could not have.
My fingertips brushed the knife’s handle, skipping it sideways, almost into my fingers. Just a little more… I almost had it.
His mouth burned my neck. “You want me,” he growled. “I smell it on you.”
His hand tried to force my trousers down, over my waist, and when the jerks weren’t enough, he grabbed me by the shirt with both hands, picked me up, and slammed me down. My head smacked the tabletop and the shining, glittery room spun. This wasn’t right. Another nightmare. It wasn’t real…
The beetle buzzed under the bowl.
I turned my head. The bowl drifted out of focus, then back in, pin sharp. I flung out a hand, knocking the bowl free, and the beetle took flight, its clockwork wings buzzing so loudly they sounded as though they were beating inside my head.
Hot, rough hands groped, rode up under my shirt. Then his right hand dropped, clutching my cock, as though he could force some life into it. He rubbed and fumbled—
A knife. Next to the toppled bowl. I snatched it and slashed, zipping open a blood line across his cheek. He gasped and dabbed at the blood. Between one blink and the next, his whole outline blurred, shifting, slithering. I saw dark eyes and darker hair, and a rage so brilliant it could eclipse the sun. But like a twitch, the vision was gone, leaving Rochefort dabbing at his bloody cheek.
The beetle landed on his neck, as purple as a boil, and burrowedunderhis skin. He screamed the most awful, wailing, satisfying sound I’d ever heard.
I kicked him back, stumbled for the door, flung it open, and fell into a staccato run, tripping over my feet. I flew through the front door, sprinted down the steps, and staggered into howling wind and swirling snow, my only thought, the one that kept my veins fiery hot—escape!
ChapterNine
Devere
Someone was knocking on the store door despite the fact I’d switched the sign to CLOSED hours ago. Incessant, never-ending knocking. I’d hoped they’d give up and leave, but no…
With a growl, I set down my tools and stormed from the workshop into the storefront.
The man at the front door had begun to wear my already thin patience down to a bare thread. Valentine Anzio had never known when to stop. Always teasing, always pushing, so loud, too much talk, a boy always in trouble. What trouble was he in now? I drew closer. Something was very wrong with his appearance. Mussed, snow-caked hair framed his pale face, dashes of red splattered his cheek, and his clothes were in terrible disarray.
He spread his hand on the glass. Dark eyes pleaded with me to let him in, and his blue lips formed my name.
I unlocked the door and stepped aside as he staggered out of the cold and into my world. “I d-didn’t know… w-where else… to g-go.” He shivered so much he might have been experiencing an episode.
“The fireplace,” I snapped. This man was certainly the most irritating fool I’d ever had the misfortune of knowing.
He shuffled toward the crackling fireplace, dragging his feet and leaving trails of melting snow on my bright rugs. How long had he been outside? And why had he come to me?Only place to go?He had the inn and the lord. I was nothing to him, a suspect, someone to look upon with disdain. It was a good thing he looked so wretched or I’d have pulled the gun on him again.
