Page 114 of The Hunter
“I could nab you for Lord Thurston’s murder.” Morley lifted an arrogant brow. “Youwerethere. You had a knife in your hand.”
Dorian contained his wince, knowing Morley had just lost any chance he’d had with the man.
“You couldtry.” Argent’s voice should have frozen what little blood Morley had left in his veins. “I’ve spent enough time as a prisoner of the crown toeverdo it any favors.”
“This wouldn’t be a favor, you’d be compensated.”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
Morley made a one-handed gesture of desperation. “I’m offering you emancipation from your current… circumstances. A different life. A better path. The chance to be a force for good. To be a better man.”
Argent made a low noise and stalked to the inspector, putting his face right into his. To Morley’s credit, he didn’t back down, even though the large assassin loomed over him a few important inches.
Dorian shot to his feet, ready to intervene.
“It was men in your position who put me onthispath in the first place. I was innocent once.Wewere innocent.” He gestured to Dorian, who agreed wholeheartedly. “Andgood. But inside the walls of your cage, we lost the meaning of the word.” Argent shouldered past Morley, who paled further at the jarring impact.
The assassin paused at the threshold, but didn’t look back. “If there’s blood on the streets, you have no one to blame but yourselves.” With that, he disappeared down the dark hallway.
Morley turned to Dorian. “Blackwell, if you could talk to him. Make him understand that I’m trying to change all that. To ensure the future is not like the past.”
“Don’t look to me.” Dorian shrugged. “I’m not in control of his decisions.”
“Who is?” Morley asked.
Dorian squinted into the shadows of his own home; noting that Argent hadn’t left as he was wont to do, but gone upstairs toward the guest rooms. “That’s an excellent question, Inspector. One that remains to be seen.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
Millie was exhausted. Though, it seemed, she couldn’t bring herself to snuff the lantern and lie back. Full of alternate scenarios and unanswered questions, her mind seemed to eschew the darkness. Too many monsters lurked there.
Too many memories.
Perched on the edge of a lovely and comfortable guest bed, she stared at the budding bruises on her wrists left by iron manacles, and let the peaches-and-cream bedroom blur into her periphery. Swathed in a borrowed white nightgown, bathed, brushed, and braided, she remained motionless for countless minutes.
Jakub was safe. She wasalive. The danger was vanquished. So, why did she feel more insecure than ever? What was this strange lump of fear stuck at the back of her throat?
Why did the thought of going back to her charmed and happy life make her so melancholy?
She knew he was there before he made a noise. Perhaps she’d been waiting for him. Because the moment Christopher Argent stepped into the bedroom, all questions were answered. All the anxiety dissipated. And the darkness seemed like a safer place. Because he was part of it, and it was an eternal part of him.
He looked hard and savage. Angry. His face was stone, but not the cold, grim set she’d come to know. Even though he wasn’t looking right at her, she read everything she needed to in his features. This wasn’t the man who only a half hour past had sung a gentle lullaby to her son. This was a different beast. Perhaps one she hadn’t met before.
Millie wasn’t used to heat from this man, let alone the conflagration she sensed from him. Heat and possession and something deeper, more permanent, radiated from his large body.
An answering warmth flared beneath her own skin, and she yearned to meld it with his, lest she be scalded by need.
“You’re…alive.” His chest heaved and he had the strangest look in his eyes, as if he’d come upstairs expecting her to be gone, or worse. “I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You’re beautiful. That is… you look… better.”
He was acting strange. Well, more strange than usual. And he had been since the catacombs. Though he’d shut her door behind him, he hadn’t yet taken his hand off the latch. Millie had a feeling that if she made a move toward him, he’d bolt.
“Come in,” she invited, patting the space on the bed beside her. “I haven’t had a moment to properly thank you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Nonsense,” she cajoled. “Come here.”
He shook his head, stepping backward. “I’m not myself.” His eyes were bright, his movements jerky and wild instead of graceful as usual. “But I had to see you.” He gave her his broad back, as he turned the latch to leave.
