Page 141 of Their Master

Chapter 33

The door opened barely a crack and Smith kicked it in.

“Bloody fuck!” Charles yelled when the thick slab of wood struck him in the forehead.

Smith leapt on him, bearing him down to the floor and landing on top of his far slighter body.

Charles gasped like a landed fish, his eyes going wide. “Smith! What—”

“What the devil is this?” an arrogant, upper-class voice demanded from somewhere beyond the small entry hall.

Smith looked up to see a large man dressed in a gaudy gold and red robe.

“Get out,” Smith snarled. “Now.”

The man’s jaw dropped and he shuffled backwards. He was about the same age as Smith, a head taller and three stone heavier, but he had the pasty look of a man who lived a life of leisure. And drugs. Smith could only assume he was one of Charles’s customers.

He turned to Charles, who was just getting his wind back. Smith leaned his forearm on Charles’s throat and pushed. “You go near Moira again and the next time there won’t be any conversation. At. All. Do you understand me?” He lifted the pressure just enough so that Charles could answer.

“Yes!” he gasped. “Christ, Smith. I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I just wanted to see this woman you’ve fallen in love with—I could see it in your eyes the few times I got you to speak of her. You finally love somebody.” He sobbed. “And it’s notme.”

Smith’s mind snagged on his words.The woman you’ve fallen in love with.

Bloody hell.

“Smith?” Charles asked, his voice shaky and tentative. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be—”

Smith shook himself and turned his attention back to Charles. “You’ve seen her,” Smith snapped, glaring at the other man and briefly tightening his grip again. “So now you don’t need to go near her again.”

“I understand—I won’t talk to her. I promise. Bloody hell!” he whined. “I think I cracked my head when you knocked me down.”

Smith scowled and pushed to his feet, brushing off his clothing and staring down at the wreck of a man at his feet.

He was shocked by Charles’s appearance. He was skinnier than he’d been even a month ago, but it was more than that. His skin was dull, his hair—once his crowning glory—was lank, and he stank of sweat and the sickly-sweet smell of his new lover—the one he smoked, not the one in the hideous robe.

Smith hesitated, and then said, “You’d better take yourself in hand soon Charles, or there won’t be anything left of you.” He turned toward the door, which was still hanging open.

“Smith.”

“What?” He turned.

Charles was still sprawled out and his robe was parted, exposing his flaccid cock.

Charles slid a hand around his shaft, the gaslight glinting on the silver in the head of the crown. “How about once more? Just to say goodbye properly.”

Smith snorted with disgust, spun on his heel, and took the steps two at a time.

Once outside he waved away his coach. “I’ll walk.”

His two guards hopped off the box and followed behind at a discreet distance.

It was cold, dark, and a goodly way back to his part of the city, but he needed the air and exercise.

He grimaced when he recalled that he’d left poor Luke sitting in his bedchamber, no doubt believing he’d gone mad.

Perhaps he had.

He had, quite literally, seen red when he’d heard Charles had gone to see Moira. It hadn’t only—or even mostly—been fury that propelled him to Charles’s house like a winged hangman of death. It had been fear.

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