Page 71 of Captive of Outlaws

I frown. He’s breathing a tiny bit hard, and the top stud of his tuxedo shirt is undone, which it wasn’t before.

“You’ve got a...” I gesture, but Tuck doesn’t catch on, so I just fix it myself. “Here.”

I slip the stud back through the buttonhole, my fingertips just brushing his skin.

“Oh, thanks.” He grins. “C’mon, let’s go have some fun before we have to bust out of here.”

He takes my hand again. Maybe it’s the champagne, or the thrill of the heist, of my mother’s necklace safe in my possession, of Uncle John getting his ass handed to him, of seeing a goddamn wolf prowling the grounds of the Fox Hunt club without coming near us, but my palm feels warm in his. Easy. Safe.

The chatter and clamor of the party starts to fade as Tuck leads me around the corner of the wall, to where a small set of stone stairs leads down to a small clearing. It’s a little crisp out now, the air just cool enough on my skin that I feel goosebumps prickle up.

“Where are we going?” I say.

“Like I said, somewhere cool.” Tuck turns and grins at me under his mask. “Trust me.”

I follow him over a small stone footbridge that spans a small burbling creek, and onto a narrow flagstone path that leads us to a perfect view of the Fox Hunt Club. From a distance, it’s not so bad: all golden windows and stately brick walls. No hints of the despicable people who are crowding its insides and slurping up booze.

“Ta-da.” Tuck stops, and I almost walk into him as I turn back to the direction we were walking. It’s a tiny, gated garden, with hedgerow walls and a tiny lantern hanging from the arbor at the entrance. The light scent of roses drifts over to us, the only sound the murmur of the water nearby and the occasional chirp of crickets.

“Damn,” I say, almost doing a double take. “Did you just conjure this up?”

Tuck laughs. “I wish. Not a magical power I possess, unfortunately.” He drops my hand—to my disappointment—and jumps to open the gate for me.

“My lady,” he says, bowing gracefully.

I snort. “Thank you, uh...good sir.” I do an awkward curtsy as I sweep in the gate.

Inside, it’s like a postcard: dainty buds of wild roses peeking out of flush, leafy brambles, moonlight painting every surface with silver, and a small statue gleaming white-bright in the center: an angel, with her wings spread and her hands cradled to her chest.

“Wow,” I breathe. I’m not a sentimental type, but this caught me off-guard. I reach out for the statue, brushing my fingertip against the marble that’s smooth as glass.

“You like it?” Tuck says, sounding as proud as if he’d carved it himself. “I thought...never mind.”

The bashful tone in his voice has me turning around. “What? You thought what?”

Tuck’s averted his gaze, but looks up when he sees me turn. “I...thought she kinda looked like you,” he says. “Just a little.”

It’s so sweet, such a kind, thoughtful,Tuckthing to say that a smile curves on my lips out of instinct. I take a step toward him, lifting the mask from my face as I do.

“You think?” I tip my chin and tilt my head toward the statue, inviting him to get a better look. “Because I don’t think I’m exactly the angelic type.”

Tuck pushes his own mask up his forehead and off, letting it drop to the ground. His eyes are intense on me, then the statue, then me again. I can practically feel the beam of his gaze, holding me in place—but gently, like he simply wants to study me. To admire me.

“I beg to differ,” he says. “You’re as angelic as they come, Maren.”

I snort. “Seriously, Tuck, I’m not. I swear like a sailor and I’m covered in motor oil most of the time. I’m not...delicate and benevolent, or whatever.”

Tuck shakes his head, the earnestness on his face shining even as his eyes go dusky. “No, I disagree. You’re a different kind of angel. The kind that avenges. Stands up for what’s right. Helps people.” He rolls his eyes briefly to the sky, a pink tinge on his cheeks. “God, that sounds incredibly cheesy. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, I think I get it,” I say. “More flaming sword angel than golden harp angel.”

Tuck smiles. “Exactly.”

We’re standing close, so close, too close to ignore how near to touching our bodies are.

And I know.

I know it’s that make or break moment, where either we’re going to kiss or we’re going to awkwardly shuffle apart and never mention it again, banish the moment to unspoken memory forever.

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