Page 46 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Six months later

Callahan tugged at his cuffs, resettling the lines of his evening kit. This was exactly the kind of gathering where the remnants of the Syndicate would slither out of the woodwork.

And it was exactly the kind of gathering where Isabel shone brightest.

Callahan’s wife stood amid a cluster of admirers, her laugh carrying over the orchestra.

For six months, they’d been Maria Mikhailovna and Alexei Pavlovich Volkov, Russian nobility with money no one questioned too closely.

Tonight, she wore blue silk that plunged low in the back, leaving her shoulders bare.

Her hair was swept up with a curl resting on her neck to hide the mark he’d left earlier.

The loop of a scar was barely visible below her necklace.

To the casual observer, it might have looked like the remnant of some childhood misadventure.

But Callahan knew the shape of those scars intimately. After all, he’d been the one to carve them.

R.L.C.

Imagining all the marks under her dress made something hot and possessive twist in him.

Sometimes, he thought about leaving them where everyone could see.

Somewhere that couldn’t be concealed with jewels or high collars.

But he also liked knowing that beneath the prim facade, his wife was covered in proof that she was well-fucked.

And only he got to see it.

She felt his gaze – she always did – and her eyes met his across the room. Six months married, and that look still hit him harder than any punch he’d taken in the East End. The wanting was a physical thing clawing in his skin.

He crossed the ballroom towards her. As he approached, the strains of conversation drifted to his ears over the swell of music.

“. . . cannot imagine how you manage it, Mrs Volkova,” a brunette with too much jewellery was saying, leaning into Isabel’s space. “My husband barely notices I exist. Yet yours watches you as if he’s starving. What’s your secret?”

An impish dimple flashed in her cheek. “A wife ought to have some mystique, don’t you agree? If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

The women tittered, delighted by what they assumed was playful banter.

They had no idea.

That was a warning – his wife showing her teeth. It shouldn’t arouse him, the knowledge of her casual deadliness. But he was a sick, twisted bastard, and it only made him want her more.

“I’m afraid I must steal my wife for a moment,” he said as he wrapped an arm around Isabel’s waist. “You ladies won’t begrudge me a dance with the most beautiful woman in the room, would you?”

He brought his lips to her knuckles as his eyes promised darker, filthier things. A chorus of sighs and fluttered fans answered him as he led Isabel away.

“Come to rescue me?” she asked.

“We both know I was rescuing them from you,” he said, dragging her into a waltz. “You looked about thirty seconds from stabbing Lady Lavinia with a cocktail fork. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Did you see how she pawed at you during the last quadrille? Shameless.”

Ronan pulled her closer than propriety allowed, sliding his palm lower on her back than he should. “There it is. That jealousy. Makes me want to bend you over right now. Let everyone see exactly who you belong to.”

“Behave yourself, Mr Volkov. We have a job. Our mark could walk in any minute.”

“He’s not here yet. And that dress is making me lose my mind.”

“ Ronan .”

He should be used to this by now. This hunger. The way she dismantled him with nothing but a look. But it was worse since he put that ring on her finger. Sharper. Deeper. Because he knew she was his.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Remember what you promised me? If I behaved?”

Isabel’s fingers tightened on his arm. “You’ve been so very patient. I suppose I should reward you.”

Her hand brushed against his cock, hidden by their bodies as they turned. So fast he almost thought he’d imagined it. Almost.

The woman was a menace.

The waltz ended, and Ronan pulled Isabel against him. “Meet me in the alcove,” he whispered. “Five minutes.”

He walked away before he yielded to the impulse to haul her over his shoulder and carry her out of the ballroom like some savage claiming his prize.

Ronan nodded at a passing diplomat. He made small talk with some German baron whose name he couldn’t remember.

The next five minutes were the longest of his life as he mingled and exchanged pleasantries.

But all the while, his gaze kept straying to the gold curtain cordoning off a secluded alcove.

At last, he gave his excuses and disappeared beyond the heavy velvet.

The space was lit only by the soft glow of a single gas lamp.

Barely a minute later, the curtain rustled, and Isabel stepped through.

“Hello, wife.”

“Hello, husband.”

In two strides, he had her up against the wall, his mouth claiming hers in a brutal kiss.

Her lips parted on a gasp, and his tongue brushed hers.

She tasted of champagne. Sweet and sharp, like everything about her.

His hands settled on her waist, pinning her in place while he devoured her, letting six months of marriage and years of wanting pour into the kiss.

“Isabel. Have I told you today how utterly you devastate me?”

She gave a breathless moan. “Once or twice. Though it was more an inarticulate series of grunts over breakfast.”

“That wasn’t talking. That was worship, little thief. What if I made you come right here with all of Vienna’s elite just steps away? Would you be able to stay quiet, or would you scream my name until they all know exactly what I do to you?”

Her head fell back. The long line of her throat invited his teeth, his tongue.

“You’re a vulgar man, Mr Volkov.”

“That’s why you married me, Mrs Volkova.” He bent to nip at the lobe of her ear. “The knives. You’re wearing them tonight?”

“Always.”

He rewarded her with a slow grind against her. “How many?”

“Enough.”

“Tell me. Or I’ll start searching. Every. Inch.”

“Better get started then.”

Challenge accepted.

Ronan shoved his thigh between her legs, pushing up enough to make her gasp. His hands were already moving, aware of where to search. The hunt was half the pleasure.

His touch skimmed the outline of a small blade strapped to her thigh. “One. Did you strap this here thinking about me finding it later?”

Isabel arched into him with a shuddering sigh. Needy. “Everything I do is for you.”

Something primal lit up in his chest. Heat flooded his veins as he slid his hand down to the hem of her dress. He bunched the silk, shoving it up until he touched the second blade on her opposite leg. “Two. Do you know what it does to me, knowing you’re armed to the teeth under all this finery?”

“Why do you think I wear them?”

He moved to her bodice next. His hand dipped inside, and his fingertips traced the scars of his initials carved into her skin before locating the weapon nestled between her breasts.

“Three.”

Her nipple pebbled against his palm, and he fought the urge to tear the whole damn dress off.

He found the fourth blade tucked into the small of her back. “Four.”

Isabel’s eyes fell shut. She was panting, a flush climbing up her chest. Callahan couldn’t resist following the enticing path with his mouth.

“How—” Isabel broke off with a gasp as his teeth grazed her collarbone. “How do you know there’s not more?”

He nuzzled the soft spot behind her ear that always made her shiver.

“Because I know every trick you might think to hide one of your little darlings. Just like I know if I slipped my hand up your skirts right now, I’d find nothing between me and what’s mine,” he whispered, biting her shoulder softly. “God, I love you.”

“I love you desperately.”

He marvelled at the miracle of it. That this brilliant, fierce woman had chosen him. That she continued to choose him every day.

“I want you to come for me, little thief.”

He brought her to completion in that alcove.

He’d done this to her in the dark corners of half the great houses of Vienna – watched her come apart with his name trapped behind her teeth, her fingers leaving bruises on his arms. They’d cut themselves open for each other.

Bled out their secrets. Found that their jagged edges fit together.

He knew her body like his own – where to touch, how much pressure, when to slow down and when to push her over.

Because he and Isabel Dumont had taken their broken pieces and stitched them into something stronger.

When she finally stopped trembling, he pressed his mouth to her temple. “Ready to get back to work, Mrs Callahan?”

“Lead the way, Mr Callahan.”

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