Page 23 of A Bloom in Winter

He focused on some scuff marks on the carpet, and a pool of blood that had been absorbed by the wool fibers. This had to be where the job had been done, he thought.

Or at least he assumed that was the case.

“We also need Butch,” he said. “This is above my pay grade.”

“Roger that. He’s right beside me and getting his car keys as we speak.”

As Tohr hung up, he glanced back over his shoulder. Out on the bed, the body hadn’t moved, but in a reality-twister, he imagined the male sitting up—and being offended at the fact that his Egyptian cotton bedding was all stained and his monogrammed shirt ruined.

Returning to the bedroom, he went over to the windows that, yup, looked out into a formal garden that would have been illuminated by the exterior lighting if everything hadn’t been obscured by the swirling blizzard. He imagined the back acreage was like the rest of the place: A near-miss at the goal of old-school grandeur because the owner had more money than class.

This was the newglymera.

Bloodline used to be the only velvet rope. Now? Cold hard cash got you into the club. They’d had to lower their standards after so many of the Founding Families had been killed in theraids. After all, those rules and social slights they lived and died by required a critical mass of people who believed the bullshit.

Or bought into it, as was now the case.

He glanced at the body of Broadius Rayland again. What hadn’t changed?

“A murdered aristocrat is a big problem,” he muttered aloud.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was like a museum for animal heads.

As Mayhem carried the wounded female into some kind of rustic great hall, he was under the watchful glass eyes of all kinds of taxidermied mammals. Deer, bears, bobcats, coyotes, moose—meese?—and other things with antlers he couldn’t name. Given the scents, which were nil, he gathered the gruesome decorations had been mounted up into the arching elevation years and years ago.

Given what had just happened out in the forest, the wild animal shit was a little too close for comfort.

At least there was a roaring fire in the river stone hearth that ran all the way up to the ceiling, and he laid her out on the tartan sofa closest to the warmth. Then he eased back.

The female was looking up at him with wide, dark blue eyes, and talk about needing medical attention. His heart was doing the cha-cha-cha in his ch-ch-chest, and his head was swimming like someone had swapped his brain out for Jell-O. She was just so beautiful, though. Her face was heart-shaped, her features delicate and perfect, her cheeks flushed from the cold in a way that made her seem healthy even though she was clearly in shock.

Plus he’d always had a thing for brunettes. Her long, dark hair was tied back and damp from the snow that had fallen in it. He imagined it loose and wavy, down her back—

“Where’s your first aid kit?”

“What’s your name?”

They both spoke at the same time, but he was the only one who seemed to have to take a moment to recover from hearing the other. Sure, they had traded a couple of words out in the storm, but it had been hard to catch any nuances over the din.

Here in the quiet, hervoice made him feel like she had stroked his naked thigh . . .

Abruptly, what she’d said sank in. And as he considered the truthful answer, he wished he were a Bob. A Tom. Dick or Harry would also work.

Well—not a Dick. That was too close to what he was having a problem controlling even though she was injured, a stranger, and way too good for him—and yes, he was certain that last one was true without knowing anything about her.

And hey, he wouldn’t have hesitated if his given name wasn’t a descriptor that kinda fit.

Really fit perfectly, in truth.

“Call me Hemmy,” he heard himself reply.

The smile that tilted her lips amplified her beauty, sure as you could turn up the volume on an opera. “Like the engine.”

“Yeah, that’s it. How bad are you hurt—and where?”

“My hand’s the big problem.” She held up a bloody glove. “It’s really throbbing.”

---