Page 33

“Ah, you do like me?” he said, weakly. He wasn’t used to being liked, to having friends, to flirting. He might not have much experience in this area, but he knew that there was something here between them.

And as much as it pained him, he needed to squash it before it had a chance to grow.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied, and from the almost wistful way she said it, he knew it was true. “It’s a shame, you’d be much easier to manipulate if I hated you.”

Her words hit him as hard as a slap across the face, reminding him that she was a Blood Worker. That no matter how much she claimed to be on his side, she still had her own agenda. “You’d rather that, then? A pawn to manipulate instead of an ally to trust?”

Her expression shuttered; the easy playfulness gone. “It’s not that simple, Samuel.”

Looking away, he rubbed his face. “Right. Forgive me.”

Shan sipped her wine. “Did I mislead you at some point? You know that I have—”

“Schemes?” Samuel snapped. “Plans? Yes, I do. Thank you for your help today, but I can take it from here.”

“Blood and steel, there is no need to be so dramatic.”

“Good day, Shan.” He stood, gesturing to the doorway. “You know the way out.”

For a long moment she just stared at him, her eyes narrowed and her lips pulled into a frown. “You know what? Fine.” She drained her glass, then slammed it back on the table. “If you have need of me, you know how to reach me. Goodnight, Samuel.”

She snatched her shoes then walked out of the study, not even stopping to put them on. Her head was held high, her shoes dangling at her side, and she did not look back at him.

He remained standing until he heard her slip down the stairs, then collapsed onto his chair, burying his face in his hands. He hadn’t meant to be so cold, and yet…

It was probably better this way, after all. Despite her smiles and her little kindnesses, he had to remember that she’d still use him in a heartbeat. And besides, he still had this awful power, and until he mastered it—if he could master it—he wouldn’t be safe to be around. He could barely control it when he got angry; he didn’t want to think about what could happen in a moment of passion.

What did happen in a moment of passion. The words still haunted him, even after all this time.

Kiss me.

Such a simple thing, and all Markus’ choices had been taken away. In that moment, when Markus had turned to him with that glossy look in his eyes, Samuel realized that he was no better than his father—the nameless figure who had raped his mother and ruined her life.

He didn’t need violence. He just needed his voice.

It didn’t matter what he wanted—how badly he wanted—he was still a monster, and he could not let himself forget it.

And as Shan LeClaire stormed out of his home, he wrapped himself in the shroud of his loneliness. It was, after all, an old friend. The only one he had.

Chapter Twelve

Shan

Shan loathed to be distracted from her work, especially now, in the wake of her grand transformation of Samuel from gutter-rat to near prince, with things so suddenly and awkwardly strained between them. But she couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement. Isaac had indeed come through—an invitation to the theatre had arrived. A private box. Opening night. A promise of fun and scandal and just a hint of romance.

For a brief moment, she wished that she was anyone but her, someone who could simply fret over suitors and dresses, who could dream of a real romance. Not the woman who had to carry the rehabilitation of her entire family’s reputation on her shoulders, or the success of an entire web of spies and a secret plan to undermine a king’s regime from within.

But she was not that woman, no matter how much she wished. She had chosen this life, or perhaps it had chosen her, and she had to live with the consequences.

It was nearly time, and she was hurrying down the stairs to wait in the parlor when she was stopped by a sudden, baffled, “Really, Shan?”

She glanced up at her brother with a grin, twirling to show off her new gown. The scarlet silk fluttered around her, and she relished the smooth feel of the bodice that hugged her tight. It had been commissioned in the weeks before she murdered her father, a reward set in place for her success. “It is the latest fashion.”

“Not even a little decorum? It’s barely been two weeks,” Anton pressed, gesturing to his own somber colors. A ridiculous gesture on his part. Their father didn’t deserve the honor.

“I’m going to the theatre tonight,” she said, as if that explained it all.

“Oh, I see.” Anton crossed his arms over his chest, a harsh frown marring his normally carefree expression. But then again, he had been growing colder of late, a change that was coming as slow and inevitable as the frost in winter, but Shan had no idea how to reach him. “And that required a new dress? Shan, we’re bleeding money.”