My Lady Quicksilver

A trained killer.

He recognized it, even as the coldness faded from her expression, replaced by breathless misery. Because of him. His hand slid from hers, unable to reconcile the woman he saw in front of him with the woman he’d known.

“I need him alive,” he said.

Rosa let go of the cymbal, as if seeming to see it for the first time. Color flooded into her cheeks, emotion heating her expression. He couldn’t read what she was thinking, but at least she was no longer the ruthless assassin he’d caught a glimpse of.

She knew it too. Her dark eyes flickered to his, saw everything he couldn’t hide and looked away. “Of course.”

Ripping out the strings on several violins, he knotted them together and then bound Mordecai’s hands behind his back. The man groaned but didn’t fight it. From the angle of his knee, he wouldn’t be fighting anything soon. Then Lynch sat down and scraped his hand over his face.

What was he going to do?

Fury had died. He felt numb. Numb and so very, very old all of a sudden. The brightness he’d felt whenever he’d been around her had seemed to leech out of him, as if she’d sucked the very soul from him.

I loved you. He looked at her, waiting patiently on her knees, with her hands pressed so tightly together, he felt as if he’d somehow struck her a mortal blow. Dark lashes fluttered against her cheeks, but she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—look at him.

“Why?” he asked hoarsely. “Your brother? Only your brother?” Was there ever anything for me?

She toyed with the fingertips of her gloves, a move so reminiscent of Mrs. Marberry that his lungs arrested. Then he shook it off. He couldn’t keep looking for things that weren’t there.

“I swear,” she whispered. “I only ever wanted to find my brother.”

The dull truth of that made the fluttering hope in his chest die. He couldn’t stay here anymore. Shoving to his feet, he buried everything deep inside. This was worse than that moment when he’d realized that Annabelle had played him false. Perhaps it was the healing balm of all those years dulling the memory, or perhaps because he’d finally dared to let himself feel something for someone, only to have it happen again.

Lesson learned.

Face expressionless, he yanked the groaning mech to his feet. At least he had something to show for this night’s efforts, though he knew it wouldn’t appease the prince consort. No, the Council wanted blood. Wanted the woman at his side.

He shoved the mech out of the pit. Jumping up, he caught the lip of it and hauled himself out, ignoring the way she watched him, as if waiting for him to speak.

He had no more words. Only one more night. And he couldn’t see any way out of it for himself. No matter how much she had hurt him, he could never hand her over. His feelings, at least, had been true.

“Lynch,” she whispered, looking up at him. “I’m sorry. I know…I know nothing I say could ever—”

But he wasn’t listening to her. A figure stepped slowly out of the darkness, coalescing into a tall man in the aisle, leaning on an ivory handled cane. Strands of white dulled his coppery hair until it was a faded strawberry blonde, and lines fanned out from the corners of his small, black eyes. He wore the crisp black of a long-tailed coat, the stark white of his shirt gleaming in the shadows. A typical uniform for any man attending the opera, he was so unremarkable that the eye begged to skip directly over him.

As he no doubt intended. Nobody looking at him would know that this man was one of the mighty powers behind the throne, second only to the prince consort in manipulating the events of the realm. Lips thinning, Lynch reached down and offered Rosa his hand.

He yanked her to her feet beside him, ignoring the man in the aisle. The prince consort could damn well wait. He’d had enough of being played with for one night.

“Thank you,” she murmured, blinking against the sudden glare of the spotlight.

Lynch ignored her, stepping down out of the light and meeting Balfour’s gaze. “What do you want?”

Balfour wasn’t looking at him.

A sudden coldness seemed to trickle down his spine. Lynch had seen that expression before—the faint smile, the piercing blackness of Balfour’s narrow eyes as he’d watched an enemy humbled before him.

Lynch might as well not even have been there. He followed Balfour’s gaze, his hand reaching for the knife that was no longer at his hip.

Rosa hovered just out of the spotlight, so still, trembling, like a deer caught in the sight of the hunter’s gun. Her dark eyes—so similar, now he saw them together—narrowed. A thousand emotions crossed her face. Hate, fear, and finally…rage. The cold tremor down Lynch’s spine grew. If I see my father, I know I won’t come to any harm… I cannot say the same for him.

Lynch moved before the muscles tensing in her legs could even shift her. He caught her around the waist, swinging her in tight against his own body. Rosa snarled, shoving at his chest. She didn’t even look at him, fixated solely on Balfour.

“Let me go!”

Lynch caught her back against his chest, his arms locking around her. “No.”

He knew what she didn’t. There was a shadow behind Balfour. One of his falcons no doubt, disguised as a bodyguard. The man wore black and hovered with seeming indifference in the darkness. Rosa would never get close enough, even if Balfour wasn’t half as dangerous as he truly was.

For the first time, those dark eyes lifted from Rosa’s face and Lynch met them. He tilted his chin up, extending a silent challenge. Rosa belongs to me… The thought took him unaware, but he didn’t fight it. Not now. His own fractured pride was nothing compared to the dread that filled him.

“You have something of mine,” Balfour murmured, his accent so haughtily elite that it spoke of years of breeding. A faint smile played over his lips. “I thought you dead, Cerise. All these years I thought I had lost you.”

Cerise.

Rosa jerked, fighting his grip. “You did! I don’t belong to you anymore. I haven’t for years.”

“I made you,” Balfour said gently. “One only had to watch that fight to realize that you have forgotten nothing that I have taught you.” He took a step forward. “I thought I saw you earlier tonight, but you are much changed. It wasn’t until I saw you fight that I realized I wasn’t merely feeling maudlin.”

Rosa launched herself at him. Lynch swung her back behind him, stepping between the pair of them. He shot her a dark look. “No.”

“Stay out of this,” she hissed.

“He’s more than you can handle.”

“You don’t know what I can handle.”

The disturbing truth was that she was probably right. If she was Balfour’s—if she’d ever belonged to him— then she had been created to be a weapon. His gaze dropped to her hands and memory flickered. My hands…don’t touch my hands. What the hell had the bastard done to her?

“I can’t let him get away,” she whispered. “Lynch, please. He took everything from me.”

“You made your choices,” Balfour corrected.

Rosa glared at him. “I chose Nathaniel. And you killed him because you couldn’t bear for me to have loyalties to anyone else.”

A slight twitch on that expressionless face. Balfour tugged slowly at his gloves, as if thinking. The move was dangerously reminiscent of Rosa. “You should have known not to push me in that mood. I had given you everything…” His voice hardened. “And you threw it back in my face for that naive fool.” He clutched the gloves in one hand, finally meeting her eyes. “I gave you a new hand in the end.”

“You chained me to the wall, gave me a sword, and told me I had five minutes to save him.” Her eyes were wet with furious tears. She held up the gleaming steel of her fist. “You did this to me.”

“You did it to yourself,” Balfour replied. “I only gave you a choice. Him. Or me. You didn’t have to take it.”