Page 32 of Greed: The Savage (Seven Deadly Sins #7)

G rim-faced, Thornwick arrived back at the Devil’s Den later that evening.

His appointments and day’s events confirmed Thornwick’s darkest suspicions.

He and Constance, one of the girls at the Devil’s Den, had spent the day visiting six prospective patrons, each eager to host one of the club’s performances. At every stop, the script had been the same—someone tried to spirit Constance away, or lure him off so she could be cornered alone.

She’d known the assignment from the start. They’d set clear parameters for her safety, and she’d been armed besides. Even so, he should have felt more guilt than he did for enlisting her—if only to spare Addien the risk of crossing paths with some debauched lord whose tastes ran to the profane.

As he’d anticipated, Constance had been cornered, and he’d stepped in. The thrashing he delivered to the pleading nobleman confirmed what he’d suspected—the ring that had preyed on children and street-born women years ago was back in play.

When they returned to the Devil’s Den, Thornwick sent Constance on ahead and relieved her of duties for the night. He let himself in through the front entrance of the club.

The butler, a big brute of a fellow with a past darker than the night, greeted Thornwick. “My lord.”

“Jem.” With a shrewd gaze, Thornwick took in the Devil’s Den.

Business boomed; the club swelled to overflowing.

Lords lounged with painted ladies draped across their laps, while serving girls in short, filmy gowns with skirts cut to show a generous length of leg slipped like specters among the tables, keeping snifters, tumblers, and flutes brimming.

Already-deep- in-their-cups noblemen drank greedily, as songbirds and ballet dancers performed their wicked exhibitions for the men on the main floor.

Yet beneath the revelry lay an unnatural quiet, a breathless anticipation thick with the scent of impending danger.

Scandal, as it did, galloped through the ton. A nobleman’s murder would be meat for every gossip in London.

Only the ones with their ears to the gutter, however, understood the implications.

The calm before the storm…and yet the head of security wasn’t even at his customary station.

Impatient to get to Addien, Thornwick shrugged off his cloak. “Where the hell is Latimer?” he snapped.

An attending footman relieved him of the garment and scurried off.

“Latimer put Roy on the main floors,” Jem said. “He’s gone to see to matters with his wife.” The man’s craggy features held the proper somberness for the day’s discoveries. “Dynevor’s expecting you.”

Thornwick’s jaw hardened. He didn’t need the reminder. He was to carry news to Dynevor—news sharp enough to gut a man’s livelihood.

Meanwhile, Latimer saw to the safety of his wife and babe—Latimer’s station bought him that right. Thornwick had no such indulgence; he moved at another man’s command.

He had spent his life working for others: the Home Office, the faceless “People of England,” Dynevor, Latimer, Wakefield. It had never mattered before. He’d never cared enough to resent it. Until now.

Jem’s voice snapped like a whip. “His lordship’s wanting you now.”

The meeting could damn well wait. Thornwick’s gaze slid to the stairway leading to Addien’s private rooms. The primitive urge to protect her ran riot in his chest. “I’ll be along shortly.

” He needed to see her. To know she was safe.

Then—only then—would he tell her the news that would crack her world wide open.

He headed for her rooms.

Jem blocked his path. “Ye don’t want to do that, Thornwick.”

Oh, he bloody absolutely did. “You’d be wise to remember who your superior is,” Thornwick said, layering a steel edge into that warning.

The demons he’d glimpsed in her sightless stare when she’d spoken of Mac Diggory still prowled in his mind. They stirred something darker—an urge to put himself between her and the world, to track and kill whatever had put that look in her eyes.

Neither man budged.

Jem narrowed his eyes. “Oi remember who my superior is, Thornwick.” He continued to block Thornwick’s path. “Ye’d be wise to do the same.”

Two guards stepped out of the shadows to flank Thornwick on either side.

The need to be with Addien, see her, speak with her, and process with her his discovery proved greater than his duty and responsibility.

The savage beast within him reared up and ordered the deaths of the men who’d step between him and his sole purpose—Addien. “Get the hell out of my way,” Thornwick snarled and took a lunge for the guard.

A strong hand caught Thornwick in a vise. “For the love of Satan’s arm, Dynevor needs you.”

That biting response cut into the chaos.

Thornwick blinked slowly.

It appeared his descent into madness continued.

Roy.

Rot this bugger too. He’d take him apart with his teeth. And he’d begin with him first.

“I have this,” Roy assured the other guards, who were right to their dubious expressions.

Roy, the bloody man Addien would have absolutely said “yes” to without persuading, slapped an arm around Thornwick’s shoulders.

Growling, Thornwick shrugged him off. The other man held firm. With the same surprising strength that’d gotten Roy hired by Dynevor, the bloody bastard steered Thornwick towards Dynevor’s office.

“Get your bloody arm off me before I sever it from your body,” he snarled.

“I’m helping you,” Roy said gravely. “Trust me, Thornwick.”

“The hell you are.” And the hell he would.

Using the weight of his upper body, Thornwick shrugged and heaved the guard’s arm off him.

Another night the altercation would have been lost to the din. The lack of raucous cover made them a target of the crowd’s scrutiny.

That notice served to keep him moving for the very abrupt meeting coming with Dynevor.

His begrudging cooperation had no effect on Roy. The bloody bastard kept at Thornwick’s damned side. With each step, Thornwick was tormented by the reminder of where Addien’s affections lay.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. The reflexive inhalation earned the guard’s impenetrable stare.

Thornwick didn’t look at him. To do so would mean remembering the man Addien had once gone soft for.

He was the first— the only —man to possess Addien’s exquisite playground of a body. That should have made him king of masculine satisfaction where Roy was concerned.

And yet…Roy was also the man she’d wanted. Not with mere physical hunger— God help him —but an emotional one. If Roy had offered her marriage after a night like theirs, she’d likely have leapt into the bastard’s arms—and onto his cock.

Jealousy rooted fast, growing into a thick, choking tangle. I had her first. And given the disdain and denial she’d shown before he left, that one night might be all he’d ever have.

By the time he reached the door, his hands were already curling into fists. The guard let him in, and—thank God—Roy left him there.

Dynevor stood with his arms clasped behind him, anger simmering under the surface. Thornwick didn’t waste time.

“Three households this morning. Three this afternoon. Coupled with the baroness yesterday, the pattern’s the same.

The fourth—Lord Whitby—used his wife as a diversion, just as was done with Addien.

” The words hit the back of his throat like poison, the memory of Addien in another man’s snare twisting the knife.

His fists tightened until nails bit skin and drew blood. The sting was the only thing that kept him from going off on the hunt for the rest of Dunworthy’s carcass.

“I had him just as he was about to make a go for Constance. She’s unharmed. It did not take much at all to get a name from the man.” In fact, it’d been pathetically easy to get the gentleman to own up.

Unfortunately for Whitby , he’d given up a name he shouldn’t and paid the price in the middle of Mayfair’s finest for it.

Thornwick spoke dispassionately. “Meeting six was interrupted when word reached the residence of Whitby’s murder in the heart of Bond Street.”

The earl’s face remained implacable. “Diggory.”

Thornwick nodded. “The same.”

The younger man stared intently. “And…”

Thornwick growled in an indication of his impatience. It was one of the few telltale signs of his temper and that he didn’t possess quite the self-control he believed he did, and that he’d convinced others he did.

Dynevor didn’t know after all.

Rather, he’d summoned Thornwick for some other reason.

Thornwick tensed.

Another man might have been given pause or had reservations in sharing the news Thornwick now came bearing.

Not Thornwick. Thornwick excelled at blunt speech.

He didn’t have qualms or feel anything about handing down the worst news.

That skill had come to be from his time at the Home Office and thank God for that.

Prior to his work, he’d been a lily-livered bastard.

Sad about his mother and younger brother suffering at the hands of the duke.

And it had become much easier after his mother died not to care, not to worry.

By then his brother was already on to Eton and Oxford.

There’d been no one else he had to bother looking after.

“As I said, my sixth meeting didn’t take place as scheduled today.

Around that time, I received word from one of the guards left behind at Whitby’s residence, that he’d been killed.

” No, not just killed. “Killed and marked.” Because the Earl of Dynevor would understand ritualistic markings weren’t a thread in the embroidery used by polite society.

“Given the mark, it’s safe to determine it wasn’t the effects of some blow that left him damaged inside,” Dynevor rightly surmised.

It was a detachment even Thornwick had to respect, though God knew how anyone could remain untouched by such a revelation.