Page 4 of A Vocation of Violence
Was this the true reason for my surrender?
As my blood melted to honey beneath his caresses, the answer became irrelevant. His fingers deftly worked the buttonsof my blouse, which surrendered to him more readily than to myself or any maid.
I was teetering on the edge of reason and ruin when an odd knock sounded at the door, tearing us apart like a cold gust of wind snuffing out a flame.
The knock at the door twisted into a peculiar rhythm, a staccato that seemed out of place amidst the Velvet Glove’s usual symphony of sin.
Ripping his mouth from mine, Jorah tossed a rebuke over his shoulder at the door. “Sod off!”
The knock repeated without hesitation. The same odd, broken rhythm as before.
The muscles of his back that’d become molten beneath my questing hands turned to steel again. “I said I was not to be disturbed!” he roared.
A dratted third time and I recognized the increasingly aggressive knock as some sort of code.
Jorah muttered something fierce in a foreign language, a frown creasing his brow. “Forgive me, Fiona. It seems this pleasure must wait its turn.”
“Oh—o-of course,” I replied.
I was barely allowed the time to hastily clutch my shawl from the back of a chair to cover the expanse of my decolletage above my exposed corset. The interruption stung, a reminder that in this house, secrets were currency and time was a luxury few could afford.
Jorah’s expression soured from dangerous to murderous as he yanked open the door. “Enter,” he commanded, his voice laced with annoyance.
My rushing blood stilled at the sight of Aramis Night Horse.
In the Syndicate, if Jorah was the Hammer, then Night Horse was known as “the Blade.”
The juxtaposition of his presence against the Shiloh room’s genteel decor was stark. He was all hard angles and silent power, his black eyes inscrutable beneath the fall of his long hair the color of midnight. His features bore the stoic beauty of his Blackfoot heritage, and there was an enigmatic tilt to his lips, suggesting secrets even Jorah wasn’t privy to.
I knew the fires that forged him into the assassin that he was.
They’d burned me, too.
“Roth.” His tone held no deference, though his words did. “They’ve arrived early.”
I sensed rather than saw the moment Night Horse noticed me. By the time my light green gaze collided with his dark one, I’d almost missed the displeasure flickering across his face.
There was history there, too, a story written in the briefest of glances between us—a memory of a kiss bought and paid for that now hung heavy in the air.
Yet, just as quickly, his gaze slid from mine, dismissing the past as if it were weightless and worthless.
“Do I not pay a queen’s ransom to keep people entertained?” Jorah asked, his hand lingering at my waist, possessive even in his irritation. “No one can manage to distract them until the festivities begin?”
Festivities?Whatever arousal had bloomed beneath his touch died on that word.
Jorah had planned to take my virginity, and then…what? Attend a party?
I swallowed the next thought, though it tasted like acid in my throat.
What had I expected?
At the moment I hadn’t the answer for myself…but apparently I’d assumed we’d make a night of it.
“The Dublin Destroyer, he’s—insisting on an audience.” Dark eyes found me again before flicking away. A muscle worked beneath his smooth jaw. “Before midnight.”
Jorah cursed under his breath, his fingers absently toying at my lower back as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand. “Give us a moment, Night Horse.”
But it was too late.
