Page 3 of The Hellion is Tamed

She rolled the dice, the pinkie on her left hand twitching as she flipped them in her favor. Blood pounded in Simon’s temples as black edged his vision. He would have slammed his hand over hers to hide the tell if he could have. He owned a gaming hell and could spot even the most discrete tic, blink, stutter. This wasn’t good; Emma wasn’t as clever as she thought she was. He could smell the piquant edge of fear sliding into his nostrils.

His and hers.

A man who’d acquired his morals from cutpurses and lightskirts, thieves and degenerates, Simon Alexander knew trouble.

Emma Breslin, Dark Queen of the East End, was trouble.

More than he’d encountered in his twenty-seven years.

Nevertheless, he decided, repositioning his knife for better access. He was going to fucking save her. Save the woman who’d visited him for a year when he was fifteen, then cruelly stolen his heart, his family’s treasure, and left him to his haunts and his solitude.

“Guv, can anyone join this game?” Simon asked, slurring his words as he stepped into the low-lit circle, giving the shaky table an intentional bump that sent glasses tumbling to the floor. He let the knife slide into his hand with the disruption, bringing it by his side in a move he knew no one noticed.

Because he still had the fleetest touch in England. 1802 or 1882.

He didn’t duck his head as Emma gasped, turning at the sound of his voice. Her eyes were as blue as he remembered, a heartbreaking shimmer in the candlelight. The startling color of blustery skies and bottomless oceans. Places one didn’t want to inhabit. His heart gave a fierce thump, unwelcome desire for a woman he was determined to liberate only because she had something hewantedtolling through him like St George the Martyr’s bell.

He had to remember that she’d never come back for him.

“Simon,” she whispered, the last vestiges of color draining from her cheeks. The dice she held slipping from her fingers to roll across the table.

His pulse danced as her gaze did a sluggish survey from his head to his feet. But he held himself steady, warning her with a fierce look once she tracked back, to follow his lead.

“Out of here, guttersnipe,” Ramsey snarled and vaulted to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping across the planks and bringing conversation in the fetid space to a halt. He crushed his cheroot beneath his boot with a vicious stomp. “This be a private game, a privateclub.” Skirting the table, he grasped Emma’s wrist and yanked her from her chair. “I can see in yer’ face what you come for. And no one’s gettin’ to the queen before me. I’ve played the long game me whole life.”

Simon felt the corner of his mouth kick up.Guttersnipe. True, he’d been that very thing.

Rocking back on his heels, the pounding in his temples picked up speed as Ramsey tugged Emma against his hip, a possessive move that should’ve mattered little when one was only liberating. An undeniable risk to show he had a weapon, but Simon nonetheless decided to, using his knife’s pointed blade to scratch his cheek. “Care to wager for ‘er? I’m willing. To stick my neck out, that is.” He tilted his head, ran his tongue over his teeth. “For a queen and all.”

Ramsey’s fingers tightened around Emma’s wrist, his knuckles paling as she winced. “You’re bleedin’ mad, is that it? Loose in the napper? A stranger threatenin’ me in me own place? You must be. Maybe this is my night’s entertainment.” He jacked his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the river. “I own the docks; I own itall. You shoulda never stepped into this tavern, my friend.”

Emma’s gaze caught his, her lips forming a silent plea.Stop.

She’d betrayed him, but Simon would kill for her.

Because she was one of them, a member of the League, even if she didn’t know it. He tipped his chin just enough to let her see he wasn’t backing down. Not now, not ever. Confrontation and diversion were, he’d decided, the way to get them out of this mess. He was used to blending into any space he inhabited—a tactical gift—but he also knew when this strategy was doomed.

“You with me?” he asked, a muted whisper he hoped only she heard.

She shook her head, mouthedno.

He held up three fingers.On the count of…

Her pupils widened, hair spilling forward to roll over her worn bodice, the slopes of her breasts. “You’re going to get us killed,” she ground out between clenched teeth.

Seeking validation of her statement, Simon glanced around the barroom. The crowd had closed in, circling like ravenous wolves, the air throbbing with the expectation of violence. The alley entrance was close, twenty feet, give or take. He wasn’t sure if they could make it there before the pack was on them.

His focus found its way back to Emma, the grin twisting his lips only partly contrived. He was cracked for thinking it, but this brewing battle feltgood. His body thrumming, his mind balanced on the edge of a cliff. He hadn’t felt alive in years, centuries. Addictive, the rush. All the things his brothers were afraid still lurked inside him. “Emma, queen of the slums, thief of mystical objects, you know who I am, and you know what I’m looking for.” Bloody hell, no need to whisper if they were going down. He pointed the knife at her. “Do you have it?”

Her gaze betrayed her, shooting low. Coat pocket.

“You can get us out? 1882. London. Or where you showed up before. Oxfordshire. Either will do.”

She swallowed tightly, pressed her lips together, nodded.

His fingers curled around the knife. She could’ve come back at any time but had simply chosen not to. “Then, my dark darling, we’re in business.”

Before Ramsey would interpret the words they’d spoken, Simon took a swing, connecting with the brute’s jaw. His years of training with the Duke of Ashcroft had prepared him for this skirmish. Had prepared him forbattle.