Page 33 of Greed: The Savage (Seven Deadly Sins #7)

Mac Diggory, the scourge of London, had been the one stealing noblemen’s children.

Babes, boys, girls, it hadn’t mattered; he folded them into his gang, called them “family,” and bent them to his will.

His obsession with the nobility was a sickness and none bore the mark of it more than the boy he’d taken for his heir.

The Earl of Dynevor, stolen by Diggory’s men while still in the Marquess of Maddock’s employ, had been raised under that madman’s hand—groomed to be the King of Arson in England.

The Devil’s Den had been Diggory’s kingdom once. Its walls still remembered him—and they’d been meant to belong forever to the man before Thornwick.

Possessed of an equally ruthless heart, caring for nothing and no one beyond his work, Dynevor feared nothing. That was, save the threat the old gang leader posed to his hold on the Devil’s Den.

There came a sharp rap at the door.

Casual as Sunday, Dynevor walked over to his desk and picked up an open bottle of brandy and one of two empty glasses set there. With steady hands, he poured himself a drink.

Thornwick turned on his heel. If the word had reached everyone, it had reached Addien—and he’d damn well be the one to put her right.

Dynevor called out. “Where do you think you are going?” The earl’s tone held more amusement than alarm.

Thornwick forced himself to turn back. As he did, he couldn’t help but wonder if Dynevor had known from the start his father of the streets was set to rise again—if he actually welcomed the dark devil’s return.

Thornwick tested his cynical suspicions. “I trust Diggory’s returned for the Devil’s Den. He must have plans to fight you for it.” He watched Dynevor closely.

“On the contrary,” Dynevor said, perching his hip on the edge of the table.

He dangled his barely touched drink between his ink-stained fingers.

“He’s back for vengeance against those who wronged him.

Anyone who harmed the Devil’s Den in any way is fair game.

He’s vowed to see the Devil’s Den rise above Forbidden Pleasures, Lucifer’s Lair, the Hell and Sin, and any other upstart club that thinks to get established.

” With that, he took a drink, still just as casual.

He set it down. “Anyone employed here,” he paused, “and loyal to the Devil’s Den is safe. ”

There were a great many people in danger. A large number of them Dynevor counted as family, and friends, but no one here inside these walls.

Some of the dread that had consumed him since he learned Diggory was back receded. Addien was safe. By luck, she’d ended up on the right side of the impending war. It was something he could bring her, some actual assurance.

And then he was getting her the hell out of here. Away from London. Away from Eng—

“Every single event today, including your various visits…Whitby and his fate, were carefully orchestrated.” Thornwick consulted the wall-mounted regulator clock.

“It can be any moment now when he makes his reappearance. It’ll be a fierce strike.

One of two places: the Hell and Sin Club because it is his oldest rival and run by the ones who got away. ”

Funny how the wealthy, powerful men who’d built an empire in sin and vice should receive a vaunted title. Addien had gotten away…and she’d done it on her own.

“And given Latimer’s ouster, Forbidden Pleasures,” Thornwick said.

“It’ll be both,” Dynevor stated it as fact.

Diggory’s heir would know.

Restless energy ran through him, to get to her, to see her. To reassure her.

And then to make a markedly improved attempt at a proposal of marriage.

Dynevor appeared none too eager to relieve Thornwick.

“He’s got eyes everywhere,” Dynevor was saying.

“His army was the largest London’s ever seen.

He’s already assembled a legion that likely surpasses the one he left behind.

He’s not coming for us.” Dynevor opened his center desk drawer.

He withdrew several sheets of paper and fetched a pen.

As he wrote and spoke at the same time, he didn’t bother with a chair.

“This is where your work matters most, Thornwick.” There came the quick staccato scratch of the other man’s pen scraping, hitting wood as he penned his note.

He paused, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and resumed writing.

“You’ve dealt in security and secrets, but nothing like this. You’ve met your greatest match.”

Did Thornwick imagine the edge of admiration in the other man’s rough tones? Tones that’d suddenly become coarser than usual.

“He has men in here. We won’t know how long.

” Dynevor finished one note and set it aside.

He reached for another parchment, dipped his pen into the ink, and proceeded to dash off a second letter.

“There’s people in our circles, ones we’re going to protect, and ones we’re not going to bother with.

” The way the other man spoke about acquaintances, and perhaps even friends or family, falling in battle was the same casual way he went over regular club updates.

Thornwick should have admired that ruthlessness—it was how he lived his own life. Yet, for reasons he couldn’t name, a sour taste crept into his mouth as Dynevor went on.

“There will be those we lend support to. We’ll ensure their safety and find more power from that.”

Dynevor finished his third letter and straightened.

“Before you leave this office, you have an assignment, a way to communicate to those who need to know. These aren’t simple letters with the words written in them.

This isn’t pay people a visit and casually announce it with servants lurking about.

I want a code, a language people on the inside can’t understand and aren’t even aware is happening. ”

Bloody hell. He eyed the clock.

Addien.

Write the code and get the hell out.

This is what he’d done…among other responsibilities at the Home Office.

Dynevor, with a point to his chair, ceded his throne for Thornwick to work, and Thornwick worked as fast as he’d ever worked, and with the same level of expertise.

When finished, he stood and impatiently gestured for the earl to have a look.

Dynevor came into position. With an infuriating slowness, he read the letter aloud.

My dearest sisters of the streets and heart,

As I know, you’re displeased by my prolonged absence—and perhaps more so by the fact I was first to enlist Master Bladesmith Kettering’s commission, right from under the noses of you and your chosen men.

Consider it jealousy well-earned; I always come first, especially with him, the ultimate maker of arms.

Delivered to me last week, my commission is fashioned of unusual steel, dark as pitch, meant to keep the members and employees of my club safe.

It is no idle boast when I say so; you know I speak only in facts and never in riddles.

Gleaming in its length, the long double-edged blade is sharp as a whisper.

Gaze upon it as I did, and you will see the mark that gave me pause: a crest of a serpent devouring a flaming apple.

Ominous, is it not? That serpent was once so tied to the Devil’s Den we banished its use entirely.

Recall the years when handling such a dagger meant blood was sure to follow.

Frantic to get the hell out of here, Thornwick glanced at the imposing clock.

You would be right to think this one forged for more than sport—it is a warning.

In truth, it is the sort of blade one wears to be seen…or remembered.

Some cuts are clean, as we all know, and this one will be.

Beware, dear sisters; fashion your own weapons of equal strength and power.

A message lies in the steel—there always does.

Bloody hell, I should have penned a blasted shorter one.

Care well in your dealings with Kettering. His work is meticulous but deadly.

Keep your silence, for the wise do not share their greatest craftsmen.

~SK

Dynevor inclined his head. In an apparent effort to drive Thornwick bloody mad, the earl yet again stayed him. “Your work is among the best,” he said, rare with praise. But this plaudit? It bore a shadowy underlining meaning Thornwick heard.

Because the other man meant for him to hear it.

Every nerve ending went on alert. For some reason, Thornwick wasn’t safe here, which meant Addien would be without the benefit of his protection.

The next words out of Dynevor’s mouth confirmed his suspicions. “I find it unfortunate this will likely be your last assignment here.”

Thornwick stiffened. “Say what it is and be done with it. Are you pushing me out?”

Addien. I need to get to her, now.

“See ye gone? I’d sooner keep ye.” Dynevor flashed a cold grin, tinged with the faintest trace of regret. “But ye’ll walk soon enough.”

A hard thump rattled his ribs.

“Stop circling the damn point and get to it, Dynevor?” he snapped.

The other man was stalling.

To what end?

Certainly none that were good.

“You and Addien got in a row.”

His breath snagged sharp and shallow. In no world with war looming did Dynevor give two shites about he and Addien, or their relationship.

“By God, Dynevor, say your bloody piece or I’ll drag it out of you.”

Tension spilled into the air.

Thornwick crossed a line.

And he couldn’t give two shites about that .

“Addien moved on to…greener pastures.”

With that, even as Dynevor straightened himself, Thornwick was left in his crouched position, borrowing support from the other man’s desk. “Go on,” he said, his tone dead. “What do you mean gone?”

“Said she let herself get weak here, said she had to go somewhere and start over where she wasn’t close to anybody. She must have really fallen for you.”

“Fallen for me?” he echoed on a whisper.

Oh, Christ.

It all came flooding back.

“…Why do you want to m-marry me?” There’d been a tremble to her voice as he’d stroked her with his fingers the way she loved. In all his male arrogance, he’d attributed it to her longing.

“…Revenge…”

A hollow ache spread through his middle. Thornwick braced a hand upon Dynevor’s desk to steady himself.

It didn’t help.