Page 15 of King Among the Dead

A moment later, a black wraith filled the doorway.

Rose didn’t startle. All the ugly, frightening things that had happened to her had never begun with tall, slender shadows filling doorways.

The figure stepped into the room, rain drops pattering off its long coat onto the carpet, and into the puddle of light cast by her single lamp and the dying coals of the fire. The warm glow slid up a slender, black-clad torso, and carved Beck’s familiar features in sharp relief.

His eyes, though, the gleam in them – that was less familiar. As was the tight set of his mouth. The way his wet hair clung to his face and throat.

Rochester, she thought.

But, no, worse, and more beautiful. Better, too.

The cold of the outdoors poured off of him, and something else, an intangible air that left goosebumps breaking out beneath her clothes.

“Hello, Rose.” His voice was perfectly polite, as always. “You’re up late.”

“I got caught up in my book and didn’t realize it had been so long.” Her pulse fluttered, throbbing in wrists and temples, leaving her a touch lightheaded.

He nodded. “Always a danger with a good book. What are you reading?”

Hiseyes. She swallowed. “Jane Eyre.”

“Ah. One of my recommendations.”

“Yes, sir.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, the light gleaming on his teeth, and it wasn’t a smile at all, not close. Voice still calm: “What did I say about ‘sir’?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He turned and crossed the room, wet boots squeaking faintly. A sideboard sat along one wall, and she listened to the clink of glass-on-glass.

Rose got up to feed the fire, and resettled in her chair.

Beck returned a moment later, loosely holding a tumbler of amber liquid. He set it down on the table beside his chair, shucked off his jacket, tossed it on the rug, and sat.

Rose had never been to a zoo, but that was the thought that popped into her head as she watched him: being on the other side of the glass from a lion or tiger. Only there was no glass; she was in the enclosure with the animal. And the quickness in her pulse had nothing to do with wanting to run away.

He kicked one boot up onto his other knee, and brought his glass to his lips, gaze trained on the fire. The new log caught with a rush and a pop, fresh orange flames leaping. Their glimmer shined on the whiskey in his glass, and on the smooth leather of the holsters on each of his shoulders, black leather on the black cotton of his shirt.

Rose didn’t speak. She had the distinct sense that he couldn’t talk at the moment; not to have a polite conversation, anyway.

He sipped his drink, and after a few long moments she saw the line of his shoulders relax; saw him sink down deeper in his chair. His fingers drummed on his glass, and his nostrils flared as he let out a deep breath that had the firelight leaping down the holster straps on his chest.

Then he turned to her. With eyes that weren’t honey, or burnt sugar, no, not now. Gold eyes. Lion’s eyes. The firelight licked over them, carved dark shadows beneath his cheekbones. His hair was already starting to dry, faintly curling at the ends, framing his sharp jaw.

“Are you alright?” she asked, softly.

He dipped his head, a nod of thanks. “Yes. It just takes me a moment – after.”

After what? She didn’t ask.

He set his drink aside. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”

All of her foster parents over the years had smoked, and none of them had ever asked if she minded. “No.”

Another nod, and he produced a miraculously dry pack and lighter from his pocket. When the cigarette was on his lip, and he clicked the lighter to life, she saw that his hands, bathed fully in the light of the fire, were not clean. Dark smudges marred the fingers and palms.

He noticed, too, pausing a moment, staring at his own long, elegant fingers. Then he lit the cig and pocketed the lighter.

---