Page 120 of The Hunter
Saving her, protecting her wasn’t enough to redeem his soul. Deep down she had to know that, even if she didn’t accept it at the time.
That wasn’t to say he didn’t stop trying to guard her and her son. Couldn’t seem to help himself. He would fear for her if he didn’t see her for too long. He’d conceive dark and terrible things that might have happened to them both, unable to function until he found them, safe and sound, going about their day. Some instinct born of experience told him they were still in danger. That this wasn’t over. Though he knew he was being ridiculous, that he was creating an excuse for his obsessive behavior.
Lord, he wanted to be with her now. Wanted the impossible. Wanted to go back to the theater and wallow in the exquisite torture of her presence. But he knew that if he saw Thomas Bancroft put his disgusting fingers on her one morefuckingtime, he’d—
“Argent?”
Blinking away dark thoughts, he looked up, shocked to find himself in front of the Blackwell manse.
Dorian Blackwell descended his stairs with all the regal bearing of a royal. His head slightly turned to regard Argent out of his good eye, he approached the gate and pulled it open. “Has something happened?”
“No.” Left without much choice, Christopher followed Dorian up the drive, nodding to the four “footmen” along the path and in the yard.
“Then what, pray, is the reason for your loitering at my gate? You’d been standing there for minutes.”
Christopher shadowed Blackwell across his entry and down the hall toward his study, unable to produce an answer to Dorian’s question. His feet, rather than his intention, had brought him to Blackwell’s door. Yet, he now felt a sliver of ease in the dark presence of his oldest associate. Aside from the death of his beloved mother, Argent and Blackwell had shared the hardest and worst moments of their lives with each other. Perhaps habit had driven him to seek out the Blackheart of Ben More in a time of perceived crisis.
“Do you have something to drink?” Christopher asked.
Blackwell slid him a perceptive glance. “I thought you didn’t drink spirits.” He glided to the decanter and filled two crystal glasses without waiting for a reply.
“I didn’t.” Accepting the generous pour, Christopher tossed it back, taking three swallows to finish the burning fluid. It crawled down his throat and spread from his stomach to his limbs with a warm, pleasant liquidity.
Blackwell was there with the decanter, pouring him another before they each claimed the high-backed chairs by the fire. They sat in silence for a moment, each sipping their drinks, contemplating dark things in the flames. Argent wanted to say something. Wanted to unburden himself, to pour his pain and hatred and his love into the fire and be done with it. He wanted to be cold again, unfeeling. Because then he didn’t have to look at himself. Didn’t have this horrible yearning for a life that could never be. Wouldn’t have the words nagging at his thoughts, lighting tiny fires of their own within him.
Love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in this world.
Millie had believed in those words. Had offered him redemption, in her eyes at least.
Why couldn’t he bring himself to take it?
Because I’m a coward,he thought.
“You’re an idiot,” Dorian stated softly.
“It would be unwise to push me,” Christopher replied, just as softly.
“You’re also like a brother to me,” Dorian confessed in a startling, uncharacteristic moment of unguarded warmth. “So, I can push you if I like.”
Christopher couldn’t look at him. “Men like us don’t have brothers.”
“I do, actually. More than one, or so I’m told.” Dorian’s voice held a note of curious complexity. Not mirth, not acrimony, something in between.
“Do you know them?” Christopher couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“Just one. A Scottish marquess. Keeps sending me this damned fine Scotch whisky of his. He’s been abroad fighting for the empire and all that, but we’ve been in somewhat infrequent contact since the death of our father.”
“I thought you had your father killed,” Christopher mused. He glanced at Dorian in time to see the rest of his drink disappear in one careless toss.
“So I did.” Blackwell smirked. “Quid pro quo, I suppose.”
Argent nodded, remembering that the late Marquess Ravencroft had paid to have his own bastard killed in Newgate Prison. Maybe not having a father wasn’t such a tragedy.
“At any rate, I consider my relationship with you more fraternal than with any of them. We’re bound by more blood, I think. Buckets of it. And, over the past decade you and I were the closest thing to family men like us can allow ourselves to have.” Dorian seemed to be having as much of a difficult time saying the words as Christopher was hearing them. “We fought and won a war together. We’re loyal to each other. We brawl and snarl at each other. And, in the end, we trust—we hope—all is forgiven.”
He was talking about losing Millie to Dorshaw that night, Christopher knew. About the fact that nothing had been the same since Christopher had attacked the Blackheart of Ben More in his own house.
And lived to tell about it. That, alone, was a testament to Dorian’s admiration for Christopher.
