Page 98 of The Hunter
Because he was afraid. Afraid of her. Afraid of himself. Afraid to hope, to want, and…
To feel.
He was a fucking coward. He knew it, and now she knew it as well. He could see it in her eyes when he’d left her.
That’s why it was better not to look.
Spotting the slim, elegant form of Lady Thurston stepping from the manor gate, he noted which pocket she slipped the key into before Argent gave the woman his back and leaned casually against a stone post on the corner of the property. He used the time it took for her to brush behind him to check the windows of Thurston Place to make certain no one was looking. He counted her steps without glancing over his shoulder, taking into account her size, stride, and adjusting for any momentary pauses. With his honed senses, he could make out the moment she passed behind him, and he turned to trail her for less than a half minute, the time it took to get the precise angle within the foot traffic of St. James’s to pick her key from her pocket without her knowledge. That accomplished, he took three more steps, and then smoothly changed direction, back toward the mansion.
According to the man Argent had watching Lord Thurston since the night Argent had fought in the pit, he had learned that the earl was a creature of habit, which made his job easier. At half past five Thurston retired to his library to enjoy a cigar and a port or Scotch to relax until the evening meal. Now, at three quarters past the hour, he’d been given enough time to pour his drink and begin to enjoy his cigar.
The cigar he would never finish.
Glibly, as though he belonged there, Argent unlocked the gate and strode inside, immediately ducking into the long, late-afternoon shadow cast by the western wall and its hedgerow. Staying to the shade, he circled the gardens, using them for cover until he aligned with a clear path to the back trellis covered with thick ivy. The latticework threaded through to cover a large pipe and gutter that served to hold the wood structure in place. If he distributed his weight as evenly as he could, it should hold… If not, he knew how to minimize the damage of a fall and would have to enter on the main or lower floors, which was not optimal due to the amount of staff having their tea and meal below stairs before they had to bustle to feed the household.
The top floors would be deserted of staff, thus providing him with ample time and privacy in which to conduct his business.
A sprint and one-legged leap off the brick wall brought the trellis into reach, and Argent hung from one arm for a breathless moment. On a strong swing, his other arm caught the trellis and he climbed with a hand-over-hand ascent that became exponentially easier once his feet could do some of the work. At this angle, even so far up, he was effectively invisible from the street, but anyone who dared peek out the second- or third-story windows would catch him immediately.
With one last grunt of effort, he used his upper body strength to swing from the trellis to the third-floor balcony, the door of which, to his delight, stood ajar, gauzy fabric billowing in the gentle breeze.
Argent had hoped to use his garrote, to watch Jakub’s villainous father struggle against the cord as it cut into the skin of his throat, slowly filling his airway with blood and then horribly undoing the curl of wire within the man’s neck, pulling tight and snapping the spinal column in the process.
Argent filled his lungs with calming breath as his hands began to tremble. What was this? Rage? Anticipation? Perhaps an infuriating combination of the two? This was too dangerous, he shouldn’t want it this much.
“Your death will be slow and painful. I was paid extra for slow and painful.”
Argent froze. That melodic, conversational voice could only belong to one man. A man heknewhe’d have to tangle with again, but not so soon.
Not today.
Drawing his long knife out of its sheath, Argent tucked it against his arm and slithered into the library.
The splash of entrails spilling onto the floor assaulted his senses. The sound, like the buckets of steaming water the shop owners splashed over the dirty cobbles every morning on the Strand, only a little muffled by the fine carpet. The sight, like the unraveling of a gruesome rope, or something a Scotsman wouldn’t mind eating. Then there was the smell.
Argent was no stranger to blood, and had no scruples about opening a vein, but the human body was home to all kinds of gore and offal, and he generally liked to keep those bits encased in their respective cavities.
Charles Dorshaw, though, had no such compunctions. He gleefully turned his victims inside out. Often whilst still alive, as David, Lord Thurston, currently was.
Blue eyes identical to Jakub’s magnified bespectacled ones peeled open as wide as their sockets allowed as Lord Thurston’s scream was muffled by his gag. He struggled uselessly against the bonds tying his naked body to his chair. When he spied Argent, he slumped back, his eyelids fluttering. They both knew he was already a dead man.
“The ironic thing is…” Dorshaw continued his one-sided conversation with his victim, as relaxed and unperturbed as a man at his club. “Ipreferslow and painful, so it’s unnecessary to pay me extra as you would most—purveyors of my services.” Wiping the blood on the carpets, Dorshaw brought the clean blade’s flat, reflective surface to his face and brushed a lock of dark hair behind his ear with a bloody finger. Like a lady primping in a mirror. “But when a client wants their victim to suffer as badly as mine does, when they offer such a vulgar amount of money, it’s just bad business sense to turn it down, wouldn’t you agree, Argent?”
Argent said nothing, but closed the doors behind him, securing the exit. Dorshaw likely had caught his reflection in the blade. If Dorshaw took care of Fenwick, Argent’s own intended victim, he could rid the world of Dorshaw and call it a day’s work well done.
“You’re going to have to stop interrupting my kills like this, Argent, I’m beginning to think it’s personal.” Rising from his crouched position on the floor, Dorshaw faced him, tossing his knife back and forth from one elegant hand to the next.
“Did you escape or were you released?” Argent asked coldly.
Dorshaw scoffed, dropping a hand and leaning on Fenwick’s shoulder as if it were the back of a chair. “We both know I’ve never met a prison cell that could hold me for long. Whereas you, however, never seem to escape yours…”
“How the devil would you know—”
“Do you want to know what I find curious about you turning up here?” Dorshaw queried, tapping the tip of his knife against his pursed lips.
“All I want to know is how long you’ll take to die.”
Dorshaw chuckled, his dark eyes dancing with the almost sensual thrill he felt at spilling blood combined with the heady mix of having an edge on the competition. “Oh come now, Argent, you’re known for your efficiency, not your cruelty. That’s my domain. Don’t leave me in suspense. I was given this contract against Lord Thurston exclusively. So that leaves me to wonder what you’re doing here and what your business is with Lord Thurston. We don’t have to be at odds, you know. I could make him tell you anything you wanted before he dies. We’ll call it… a professional courtesy.”
