Page 35 of A Treacherous Trade
Two dark words wound their way to me from the shadows, traversing the space between us with a lethality that slid through my body with the precision of a blade.
“Hello, Fiona.”
ChapterEight
What surged within me at the sound of my name passing through those lips was not only indescribable, but unutterable.
The last time I’d seen this man, his hands were soaked in blood.
A primal protective instinct screamed at me to draw the knife I’d hidden in my boot. But what good would that do against a man known to all as the Blade? He’d earned the moniker by slicing a swath of blood through the ranks of his employer’s enemies as one of the highest-paid assassins in the city. Perhaps the Empire. He was as likely to take my own knife from me and slit my throat as anything.
Emotion struck me like the sudden forks of lightning that split the sky as a portent to a devastating storm. A maelstrom built within me, around me, a chaotic tempest of seething rage and gratitude, sorrow and grief, shame and gladness.
I tumbled through the whirlwind for several breathless moments, not knowing where to land, unable to decide which sentiment to convey.
It was shock, apparently, that escaped without my permission.
“What?” The word contained every question I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Because I didn’t know where to begin. I wasn’t even certain that I believed my eyes.
Aramis Night Horse was a sight to behold in any environs. But against a backdrop of faded rose wallpaper and the lace curtains framing a window to the brick wall across the alley…
The length of time took me to realize he wasnakedspoke to the intensity of my disbelief.
Mostly naked.He still wore the dark leather trousers he was known for. Just nothing else.
What frightened me the most about Aramis Night Horse was that I couldn’t read him. I could search the hard, marble-black eyes set deep beneath the slope of his proud brow and come away with more questions than answers.
I stared into them now, searching for something, foranything. Declining to look lower, though the entire awe-inspiring span of him remained perfectly,infuriatinglyvisible in my periphery.
I refused to let the long, lean, undulating muscle cresting beneath curiously hairless flesh intrigue me. I would not appreciate how he was gilded ochre and bronze by the lone lantern on the bedside table.
The bed being the only alarmingly inadequate separation between us.
Onyx hair with a length to rival mine was slicked back into a sedate queue at the base of his neck, revealing the beaded earring dangling from one lobe and the thick torque of silver at his throat. Serpentine, like the veins that wound down the strength of his arms.
Like the pit in my stomach, slithering with nerves.
He looked like the Devil’s own nightmare.
In almost every culture I’d heard of, it was considered rude to stare. I didn’t know if that was true for Mr. Night Horse’s tribe, as he certainly had no compunctions about allowing his gaze to linger on every exposed bit of me without an iota of reluctance or apology.
“Fiona Mahoney.” In a voice as smooth and dark as a moonless night, his American dialect, spiced with something just a bit more guttural, turned my name into an invocation. Whether a blessing or a curse, it was impossible to tell. “I hardly know what to think.”
“What in God’s unknown name areyoudoing here?” I asked in a rough whisper as I rushed away from the door, still painfully aware of the hostile women on the other side.
“That should be obvious, even to one far less clever than you.” His gaze fell to the bed, and the wisp of a smile tugged at full lips that had no business near features so vicious.
“You—you shouldn’t be here,” I stammered, my mind still rejecting his presence. “Not when your boss owns The Velvet Glove. I very much doubt you are required to pay Jorah’s rates for your… pleasure.”
The suggestion of a smile vanished, prompting me to remember just how dangerous his displeasure could become. “The Hammer is not my boss. We have a mutual understanding.”
“Does that understanding include following his orders in return for compensation?”
Lord, I should shut my gob. The last thing poor Bea needed was another bleeding corpse to haul away.
“He is ‘Jorah’ to you now?” I had the bewildering sense that this question meant more to Night Horse than the casual way in which he asked it.
Since Jorah David Roth, the Hammer, had given me leave to use his name after we were caught in a bloodbath of a gang riot together, he’d become more human to me.
