The Girl in the Steel Corset

doted on them both. He would never dream of such violence—no good man would.

But Lord Felix August-Raynes was not a good man. And it was time someone taught him a lesson.

The warm rush of familiar power brought a slight smile to her battered lips. She gave up all attempts to keep it reined in. It was the only way she’d survive this night with her virtue and bones intact. It was as though she was watching herself from a perch on the ceiling—all she could do was observe as her other self took over. Her boots shifted on the bare floor, right foot forward, left foot back and pointed out. She raised her fists.

“Coming back for more, eh?” Felix grinned at her. “I like a little fight in my girls.”

She grinned at him, causing blood to dribble down her chin. “Then you’re going to love me.” The voice was hers, but deeper and throatier than she’d ever heard before. It was a dangerous voice, and even Felix paused at the sound of it.

Finley, however, did not pause. She drove her fist right into her attacker’s throat. He staggered backward, eyes wide with shock as he coughed and choked and struggled for breath.

She bounced on her feet, waiting for him to recover. She should run and hide. She should be gasping in fear, lungs constrained by the tight lacing of her corset. But she wasn’t afraid anymore and she wasn’t about to run. She was going to fight.

But first, a little fun. She hadn’t hit the bully as hard as she could have. She was going to let him think he stood a chance first.

When Felix recovered enough to come at her again, she was ready for him. He swung and she ducked, landing another punch to his kidneys. When he doubled over, she grabbed his head and brought her knee up fast. Unfortunately, the layers of skirts she wore softened the blow. He struck her in the stomach, knocking the breath from her, and then hit her in the face again. She fell to the floor, rolling just in time to avoid being kicked by one of his boots.

She’d never been struck before—not like this. She’d never felt as though someone meant to kill her—or didn’t care if they did. She gasped for breath against the polished wood floor, rolling again when he struck out with his foot once more. She moved faster than she should have, the pain from his blows already easing.

He called her all kinds of horrible names—guttural and nasty sounding. But instead of making her feel awful or frightening her, they only made her want to hit him all the harder.

She pulled herself to her feet. Her stomach and face ached, but not like it should have. It never hurt like it should.

Her hands grabbed Lord Felix by the front of his shirt. She pulled him toward her, hard, and smashed her forehead against the bridge of his nose. There was a snapping sound just before he screamed. Finley thrust him backward, satisfaction tickling her when she saw the blood coursing down his face.

He was good and mad now. He raised a hand to his nose, and when he saw the blood on his fingers, he made a growling sound in his throat. She’d ruined his pretty face and now he was going to make her pay for it. She smiled. Or rather, he was going to try to make her pay for it.

He came at her again, like a bull. Finley didn’t think, she simply reacted and took two quick steps forward. With that slight momentum, she lifted her right boot to the wall and pushed up, grabbing the scrolled brass of the wall sconce for support and whipped her left leg out.

She kicked him in the face.

He keeled over like a milk bottle knocked off a step, hitting the floor with a solid thump. He lay there, motionless, an imprint of the heel of her boot smack in the middle of his forehead, blood trickling from his already swelling nose.

She hopped down from the wall and went to stand over him, victorious and self-satisfied. Adrenaline rushed through her veins, making her practically dance in her boots. Lord Felix had promised to teach her a lesson, but he was the one who had been schooled. He’d think twice before laying a hand on another girl.

But Finley’s satisfaction was short-lived. In fact, it was over at almost the precise moment when she looked at Lord Felix’s face. He was so still, so pale except for the blood. What if he was dead? All the fight whooshed out of her, leaving her trembling and cold in its wake.

“What have I done?” she whispered.

What you had to.

She felt his neck for a pulse, relief engulfing her as she found it. She hadn’t killed him. At least she wouldn’t hang. But she had still attacked the son of a peer of the realm and there would be consequences.

Three jobs in three months and they’d all ended with an experience like this one, although this was by far the worst. She’d been let go from each position because of her behavior, something that had released this thing inside her. Urges to act in a way that was far from civilized, far beyond what she as a young woman should be capable of.

They’d bring the law down on her for this. They’d lock her up. Or worse, use her for scientific experiments in New Bethlehem Asylum—Bedlam. And they would experiment on her once they realized she was abnormal.

Run, the voice inside her whispered. Run away.

Listening to the voice had gotten her into this mess, perhaps this time it would get her out. There was no way Lord Felix wouldn’t exact retribution upon her for harming him—either by finishing what he’d started or by bringing the authorities down upon her. There was no way she was going to let him do what he wanted to her. No way she’d risk having her brain dissected for giving him less than what he really deserved.

So Finley listened to the voice and ran.

Bent low over the gleaming steering bars of his velocycle as he sped through the rainy darkness of Hyde Park, Griffin King felt a faint ripple of warning in the Aether a split second before the girl ran right out in front of him. The rune tattoos he had to heighten his senses and abilities blazed with heat, calling out the danger just in time.

He swerved, jerking hard on the bars to avoid her, but it was too late. The glare of the headlamp slashed across her surprised face and then she was thrown through the air as he struggled to maintain control of the machine and failed. The notched wheels tore into the ground as the cycle tipped to the side, tossing him to the path before skidding to a halt several feet away.

The leather duster he wore protected him from being torn up by gravel as he slid and rolled on the rough ground. When he finally came to a stop, he lay sprawled on the wet grass just for a moment to catch his breath and spit out the dirt that had flown into his mouth.

“Is she all right?” he called out as he gingerly rose to his feet, flicking mud and grass from his leather gloves. Nothing was broken, but he still felt as though he’d been slammed into a brick wall, and tomorrow he’d have bruises to match.

In the glow of the light from the second cycle—this one upright and braced on its support bar—he saw his friend, Sam Morgan, kneel over the prone body of the girl. From this angle, all Griff could see around Sam’s large frame was a pair of long legs encased in tall, thick-soled leather boots and orange-and-black-striped stockings. Servant’s garb.

At eighteen, Griff was at an age when all he should be concerned with was ensuring his allowance lasted a full term at Oxford. His parents’ death had made him the Duke of Greythorne at age fifteen, subsequently making him all too familiar with what servants wore, since he’d recently had to hire new staff. There were some chores machines couldn’t do—or weren’t wanted to do—and those demanded a host of human employees, all of whom were designated by the uniforms they wore. Orange and black made her a ladies’ maid. Too exalted a position for this girl to be out alone at this time of night.

“Sam?” he questioned, favoring his left leg as he moved closer to the pair. “Is she all right?”

“Got a pulse.” His friend’s low, laconic voice came from beneath the dripping brim of his hat as Griff crouched beside him. “It’s steady, but she’s bleeding. So are you.”

Pulling his smudged goggles down so they hung around his neck, Griff glanced down. His blood, coming through the shredded left knee of his trousers, glistened bright red in the light. “I’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about her.”

“Did you see her face?” Sam demanded, taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “She looked almost wild.”

Griff had seen her face—just before he hit her. There had been something untamed in her features.