Page 2 of A Vocation of Violence
I pushed the thought aside. This was no romantic endeavor for me. Not really. This was about power as much as pleasure. About taking control when it felt like I had none.
Idecided when I took a lover and whom.
Not any of the Men Who Knew Better in my life.
And certainly not Jack.
“Miss Mahoney?” A young maid appeared at my side, her eyes downcast. “He awaits you upstairs.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, allowing her to lead me away from the glowing lights and noise, my heart a drumbeat against my ribs.
As we ascended, I couldn’t help but thinking that the cleansing of blood was simpler than navigating the web of human emotions. Each step we took was a step closer to Jorah David Roth, to an encounter I had convinced myself was necessary—a lie I painted in shades of truth.
It was a choice, not a compulsion, a detail which mattered only to me.
Mary would understand, wouldn’t she?I found myself seeking absolution from a ghost. She knew the weight of secrets, how they could chain you to a past that never ceased clawing its way into your present. She was forever going against what was expected of her.
It was one of the reasons I had loved her so dearly.
“Here we are, miss.” The maid’s voice pulled me back as she gestured to an ornate door. This threshold was unlike any crime scene I’d crossed before; yet, in some ways, it was exactly the same—a place where one left pieces of themselves behind.
Willingly or not.
I thanked the maid again, steeling my nerves as I reached for the knob. Behind this door was a man who could seduce with a glance, whose charm was as lethal as his criminal enterprise. I was about to barter with danger, and the price was a piece of my soul.
Or my body, at least.
It was the price that had been determined for me to grasp a semblance of power in a world determined to render me powerless.
The Shiloh room’s door had yielded an inner sanctum that bore none of the Velvet Glove’s garish splendor. Here, Jorah David Roth had crafted a haven of soft gold and ivory, a world away from the crimson drapes and heavy scents that marked the rest of his empire. As I let the door fall shut with a whisper, I realized that the true gamble wasn’t at the tables—it was in thechoices we made, the secrets we kept, and the desires we dared to chase.
Jorah David Roth, better known to the world as “the Hammer,” had long made it known that he desired me. He’d made salacious offers I’d have slapped out of any other man’s mouth.
One did not raise a hand to a man like Jorah without wishing for the grave.
Also, he’d promised me bliss. And though the Hammer was a man who ruled with an iron fist and unflinching ruthlessness, he did not trade in deceit.
At least, he’d always kept his word to me.
Even when those words had been threats.
I’d sent ahead a letter, sealed with wax and a courage I hadn’t known I possessed.
His response had come promptly, penned in a hand that spoke of both precision and fever—a contradiction much like the man himself. And now, by the muted glow of gaslight chandeliers, I braced myself for a transaction that was all at once business, pleasure, and a surrender.
But it was more than that—there was an aching curiosity within me, a longing to taste life’s darker fruits before they rotted on the vine.
Why him?
My empty bed had more than a few offers of fulfillment.
The wordshandsome,charming, andskilledfelt like an understatement when sculpting Jorah’s short list of virtues.
The rest were vices, and just as powerful a reason for me to turn to him for this act. He professed to being good at it, which many men did, but his reputation as a lover had already preceded him. He famously didn’t partake of the women he sold, but he kept lovers. He beguiled women of thetonwith his chameleonlike ability to blend with the lowest creatures ofWhitechapel or the highest nobles at court. He was both rough and regal. Equally sordid and splendid.
This was no love match, mind, but a bargain struck where only flesh and whispers would be exchanged. A pact of ecstasy, devoid of promises except for pleasure.
However fleeting it might be.
