Page 37 of Song of the Hell Witch

Nineteen

Puck had leapt over walls, sprinted the entire city of Talonsbury and then some to escape rabid Watchmen determined to put an end to Standish’s gang of orphans and runaways. He knew tired. But he’d never been truly exhausted, so worn out he couldn’t think outside of the throbbing desire to rest.

He swore the succubus had hollowed out his bones and if he tried to get out of the bath on his own, they would turn to dust inside him, render him a useless husk of flesh. His muscles were heavy as anvils, and they prickled, like every sinew had gone to sleep at once.

But he would be damned if he was missing a chance at a fancy dinner in a fancy hotel—even if it was with Prudence Merriweather.

Doesn’t matter what the past few days have been like, he reminded himself as he sat there in the tub, skin smelling like roses, toes starting to prune.

She’s still the same Pru that left you all those years ago.

If things were different, she’d still be living in her fancy mansion and you’d be burying your kid.

Don’t you start thinking anything different.

“You about ready over there, Thief Lord?” Pru teased from behind the black lace partition one of the bellboys had brought in to give her some privacy.

She’d tucked herself behind it while he’d stumbled out of his clothes, holding on to the tub to keep himself steady.

She hadn’t come out yet. “I can help you if you need it.”

“No, no.” Absolutely fucking not. “I’ve got it, just …” He tried to push himself up, then collapsed back into the tub, sending water splashing everywhere. He pinched his eyes shut in embarrassment. “Give me a—”

“Here,” she said, and he opened his eyes to find her standing over him with her hand out, wearing nothing but black bloomers and a matching brassiere.

Her dark hair, cropped just beneath her ears, still shimmered in the lamplight, and he couldn’t help it.

His cheeks flushed with heat, and he wasn’t sure which burned more, the old feelings or the shame.

What kind of man couldn’t climb out of a bathtub on his own?

The kind of man you leave for someone better.

“I can—” he started, but they both knew it was a front.

Pru rolled her eyes to show him as much.

“If you want to spend the rest of the night in there, be my guest. In ten minutes, I’ll be in the private dining room, enjoying whatever special request Arcadie’s put in with the hotel chef.

Or , instead of missing the meal of a lifetime, you can accept the fact that you are a mortal man who almost died yesterday and take. My fucking. Hand.”

With a defiant sniff, he did as she asked.

Her arm was strong as she lifted him out of the tub, a sign that the day of rest had done her good.

She’d spent most of it in the chair by the fire, her feet kicked up over the arms, reading one of the romances from the hotel library.

Between naps, he’d wake to find her dozing, making that strange sound he remembered from when they were kids, a cross between a snore and a purr.

She kept her eyes on the ceiling as she wrapped the towel around his waist.

He grinned at her sense of propriety. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.” He shot her one of his damned winks.

She cocked a brow. “Was that flirtation?”

“No.” Maybe. “Just the truth.”

“Right. Well.” She kept hold of his hand as he stepped out of the tub. His legs quivered beneath him, but his knees didn’t collapse, which was progress. Maybe his body hadn’t turned to complete liquid after all. “Think you can get dressed on your own, or do you need help with that too?”

“I’ll manage. But thank you. Not only for the help, but … for pointing out what an idiot I’d be not to take it.”

She bowed her head, staring down at their fingers, still entwined. She didn’t let go. “It’s not lost on me that men have certain shackles too. You’re not allowed to be weak.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got a choice whether to buy into the horseshit or not. It’s different for you.”

“Sure, but if you’re going to change things between men and women, you’ve got to understand them.

It’s a bit like playing Kettle. You’ve got to pay attention to your opponent’s spread as much as your own if you’re ever going to win.

” She slowly backed away, giving him a moment to test his strength.

He held his breath, waiting for the weakness to set in again.

When it didn’t, he exhaled. “I’ll let you get to it, then. ”

To say it was easy to change would’ve been a lie. Pulling the herringbone trousers on was as difficult as sprinting uphill. By the time he got his arms through his shirtsleeves, his body felt like a bag of sand.

“Would you, uh … would you mind doing my buttons?” he called to Pru, who was still hidden behind the partition. “Think my fingers are made of dough.”

She giggled once. “Sure.”

He forced the gasp down as she stepped out from behind the panels.

Her gown should have been impossible. Its long black skirt was made out of the thick mesh he’d occasionally seen street dancers wear, the kind that puffed out around them so it looked like clouds.

The gown’s black corset was held up by sheer sleeves, so he could see the white of her skin peeking out from beneath the embroidered crimson roses and black ivy that danced along her breastbone and draped down her shoulders.

She’d stained her lips a lush, wine red, and she’d found a jeweled headband, its white sapphires glittering in the gaslight.

“Too much?” She flattened the skirt with her hands. “Maybe I should’ve kept up the facade, gone with the simple emerald trousers and the black silk blouse. It’s just that—”

“No,” he said. Classic Prudence, knowing she was beautiful and doubting herself at the same time. “It’s perfect.” Then, before he could stop himself, “ You’re perfect.”

He caught the red in her cheeks, the spark in her eyes.

“Thanks.” Her hands stilled at her sides.

Straightening up, she marched toward him like his own personal tailor, hands slow and gentle as she started on the first button.

She paused before she fastened it, eyes darkening as her fingers teased the shirt to the side.

He frowned. “What?”

“This scar,” she said, and before he could stop her, she let her finger trail down the pink line that ran from the corner of his right shoulder down to his sternum. While the scar tissue was too thick to feel her touch, the nerves along his spine prickled. “Did this happen before or after I left?”

“After.” The scar he could handle. The tattoo on the other side of his chest, though.

He fumbled the first three buttons closed so she wouldn’t see the Horn inked just above his heart, the one with the prisoner number on it. He didn’t have the energy to explain tonight; besides, he wasn’t sure she’d earned that story. Not yet, anyway.

“Wait, is that the wound that messed up your shoulder?” Her brows stitched tight. “Puck, what the hell happened?”

The old impulse to lie defeated the desire he had to tell her the truth. “Dunno. It was a while ago; it’s all sort of fuzzy.”

“Did you get it on a job or something?” She wasn’t going to let this go. Fuck. “One last hurrah before you met a woman you called darling and went all domestic?”

“Sure.” It was too curt, and he knew it. “Let’s go with that.”

“Puck …”

From down the hall, a dinner bell sounded. It was crisp, clear, and he couldn’t help but laugh. Silks actually lived their lives like this, an entire day spent doing nothing, in need of a bell to remind them they might be hungry.

“Be rude to keep them waiting, wouldn’t it?” Puck went back to the buttons, his fingers working just enough to get the job done. “Plus this might be the last time you get to dress like the woman you are until we get to Stormlash, so … don’t want to waste a single second of that joy, do we?”

“You really aren’t going to tell me?” she asked as he straightened up, and the frustration was beginning to boil now, hot bubbles tickling the base of his ribs.

“It’s not exactly candlelight dinner conversation.” With a sigh, he nodded toward the door. “Now, would you kindly help a tired bloke down the hall?”

Arcadie—or the hotel’s servers and bartenders, its kitchen maids and hospitality staff—had set up one of the most divine dinner tables Prudence had ever seen, especially given such a small space.

Still wary of the Watch, Arcadie had the dinner brought up and served in what they called the Ladies’ study.

It was a small, private library just off Florence’s private suite, with three walls of books resting on cherry oak shelves.

A single open window looked out into the hotel’s back garden, letting in a pleasant nighttime breeze.

The hotelier had moved the armchairs into the far corners of the room, making space for the round table.

A vase of white autumn roses sat at the table’s center, along with two bottles of wine, open and breathing.

The silver platters at each table setting smelled of meat fat, butter, and sweet dough, and Prudence had to work to keep herself from drooling.

On her plate, a gorgeous cut of peppercorn steak waited for her, along with a hulking portion of snipped green beans, whipped potatoes dripping with honey butter, and steaming hot rolls dusted with braceberry jam.

Arcadie circled the table, pouring her and Puck glasses of wine.

The vibrant red shone bright as rubies in the candlelight.

“Thank you, my friends, for joining me on this fine evening,” they said before taking the empty seat and filling their own glass to the brim.

“I assure you I don’t mean to intrude on what I know is much-needed respite, but.

I’m afraid tonight is more than a gesture of friendship, though I hope you’ll see the meal and my hospitality as a sign that you can trust me. ”