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She paused for a beat, then asked, “Why have I never caught wind of Domelius Becker in Kenton Hill?”

Patrick did not answer immediately. It seemed to him that her breath had shortened. “If he were in Kenton, you would’ve stumbled across him by now, Nina. There ain’t many places to hide a man. No dungeons.”

“I remember,” she said. “How can you be sure he is kept safe, then? If he isn’t where you can see him?”

Wariness fluttered to life. “That’s two questions.”

But Nina only gave an exasperated laugh. “You’re not a very good walking companion.”

“Choose a different subject matter,” he said, “and you can keep prattlin’.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “I don’t mean to pry.”

“Then trust that what you don’t know won’t hurt you.”

“But holding a man like Domelius Becker must be dangerous,” she said now. “Surely he’d be better served as a trade.”

A pulse of warning ran through him. “We’ve discussed this already,” he said warily.

“We have,” she said, and though her expression was neutral, Patrick couldn’t help but detect a note of panic in her voice. Of urgency. “But I can’t help but think it a surer course to save the hostages.”

Ah. But of course she should be worried for her mother. Patrick sighed. “I promised I’d get her out, didn’t I?”

“But if the Alchemist—”

“Enough.”His tone was low, firm.

She appeared admonished, facing forward once more. For a while a restless silence stretched. “Is this how it is to be?” she asked, whisper-soft. Her shoulders drooped as though it took enormous effort to say it at all. “Secrets? Things I can’t know?”

Patrick sighed. “This is how war works, Nina. We deal in secrets. The people in charge of keepin’ ’em become targets.” He thought of his father, locked away in a cell and holding his tongue while the Artisans thought of cruel ways to unravel it. “I won’t make you a target.”

She chuckled bitterly. “I’ve been a target since I was a girl, Patrick. I’d hardly know the difference.”

A lick of violence ran the length of his spine. He imagined Nina in the hands of Lord Tanner. He imagined the things the House would do to acquire Nina, the weapon he could make of her.

And was that so different from what Patrick himself had done?

“Nina,” he began, and he placed a hand to her shoulder to turn her, setting the lantern on the tunnel floor. Then he bent down to look into her face, to ensure their eyes were level, and she could see the sincerity with which he spoke. He swiped a finger across the freckles of her right cheek. There were times when he’d found himself staring at them, plotting their constellations. Her hands fisted his shirt at his chest.Her lips parted invitingly. “Ask me how many there’ve been before you.”

She seemed taken aback. Suspicious. “How many what? Women?”

He nodded, delighting in her shock.

She narrowed her eyes. “How many?”

He moved his lips an inch from hers. “None.”

She blinked once, twice. “You’re a rotten liar, Patrick Colson.”

He caught her waist when she tried to turn away. “I’m not talkin’ about women I’ve taken tobed. I’m talkin’ about women I’ve—”

“Kidnapped?” Nina interjected, winding her arms around his neck. “Hog-tied and carried through a tunnel?”

“You got a smart fuckin’ mouth.” But she pressed that smart mouth to his, and he abruptly lost his train of thought.

“So why haven’t these other women stuck around?” Nina continued, watching him carefully. “Was it the smoking? The whiskey? Did you drive them away?”

He dug his fingers into her waist so that she squirmed. “I never wanted any of ’em to stay. Partly because I never cared for anyone enough to try. But mostly I knew what I’d be tyin’ ’em to. All those secrets. All those enemies. It isn’t a life any woman wants, Nina. You should know that.”