Page 92 of The Devil in Her Bed

Chandler would have given his eyeteeth to see Kenway’s reaction.

He’d always hated strong women.

“He deemed himself unworthy,” the earl said. “Iwill service you in his stead.”

The stags descended in lines of three and encircled her, closing in as if to crowd her toward Kenway.

She stood her ground. “But I didn’t select you. What do you mean he was not worthy? What did you do to him?”

Kenway put a hand to his own in the parody of a wounded heart. “Why, nothing, my dear. He simply… vanished. Now come.”

When she didn’t move, the two men nearest to her drew up beside her. Too close. One of them looked as if he would push her forward.

Murder shredded Chandler’s self-control and sent him reaching for his asp.

If they put a fucking hand on her he’d—

“What do you mean, vanished?” she insisted.

Kenway put up a staying hand to the stags, his robes cascading behind him as he stepped toward her. His lion head cocked to the side in a doglike assessment. “Do you know this stag of yours, Countess?” he asked.

No one could see her face, but her angst was apparent. “I think you know I do,” she said, her voice containing more daggers than she’d ever strapped to her body.

“Let me put your mind at ease, my dear, he is unharmed.” Kenway reached out and touched a tendril of her hair, gently examining it in his hand.

Red filtered Chandler’s vision, spilling liquid, molten rage through his veins.

“You willcometo me, Countess.” The command was intentionally wicked, and Francesca jerked away from him.

The stag on her left seized her elbow, shoving her forward.

Chandler leapt out of the dark, clearing the platform and sprinting toward the dais.

He’d broken the hand that touched her before the first cultist had time to scream. With a roar, he picked the man up and hurled him into the dark. The crack his body made on the unused rails was a beautiful sound.

The six other stags surrounded him, locking Francesca into their circle with him.

She yanked off her mask and hurled it at one of them before whirling back to face Chandler, panic and relief warring with wrath in her eyes.

He retrieved his asp from his belt and readied himself. He was going to beat to death every one of the men who’d threatened her and see the foolish woman to safety.

Then he’d deal with Kenway once and for all.

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

Francesca wanted to stand back and watch Chandler work. It was almost a thing of beauty, to witness the grace and speed at which he could inflict pain.

Any blows that landed on him seemed to glance off the shield of his near-demonic rage.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a cold mountain of ice. Bleak. Remote. Unfeeling.

Now he was a volcano.

His motions were controlled, his determination absolute. He hit for maximum damage and economy of movement. Like a machine calibrated for violence.

Bones crunched, flesh split, blood flew.

And she had to do something to help.