Malloryn made his way through the evening fog of Brompton Cemetery, his steps slowing as he saw the gathering around a familiar headstone.
Garrett Reed awaited him, the entire area cordoned off by Nighthawks. "Another message from your friend."
Malloryn flicked a glance toward the girl's body. White gown, bloodied gore spattered all over her chest, her body draped in front of the headstone like an offering.
Like a reminder.
Malloryn examined the familiar calling card that bore his name. He wanted to tear it into little pieces. Perhaps even burn it. Instead, he breathed out, forcing the rage from his lungs.
This was what Balfour wanted from him.
Pain. Suffering. Tormented memories rising to choke him.
He couldn't give in to it.
"Who is she?" Garrett asked. "Do you recognize her?"
"No." He knelt at the girl's side, reaching out a hand to slowly close her eyes. This one hadn't died easily. Her face was a rictus of horror, her hands scratched and bloodied. She'd fought, even at the end. "Have you worked out the identity of the first girl?"
"Miss Millie Vane," Garrett replied quietly. "A butcher's daughter."
"Send me her details," he murmured, standing and tugging his gloves back on. "I'll arrange for the funeral to be paid."
And money to be given to the grieving family, to try and make their lives easier in some small way.
It would be the least he could do, for bringing this nightmare into the homes of an innocent butcher and his family. All because the girl resembled Catherine.
Malloryn glanced at the tombstone.
Miss Catherine Tate.
Along with her birth and death dates. Two simple lines that told no one of the horrors of her murder.
I'm sorry. I'll stop them.
There was no answer. There never was. Only the wind blowing through his hair and stirring his coat.
Slipping the bloodied calling card in his pocket, he turned toward the gate.
There was no point lingering.
He couldn't do a damned thing for Catherine.
But perhaps he could finally bring her peace.
And protect those who still lived.
Plans were in place, half the Rogues trying to track vital members of the Rising Sons—such as Sir George and Devoncourt—which left Malloryn with the silence of his thoughts as he returned to Hardcastle Lane.
He'd heard Gemma giggling in Adele's room about something to do with corsets—the pair were becoming thicker than thieves these days—and with the dead girl's body on his conscious, he'd chosen to avoid them.
He wasn't in the mood for giggling.
Nor his wife's company.
As much as her state last night had amused him, the ease with which COR had accepted her into their ranks bothered him a little.
She wasn't supposed to be a part of this.
And she wasn't staying.
But pointing this out to Gemma had only earned him an arched eyebrow and a little smirk. "Keep telling yourself that, Malloryn."
They all seemed to think something was happening when it wasn't.
He couldn't allow anything to happen.
Malloryn found himself in the training room, staring at the enormous padded automaton some of the Rogues occasionally fought. Stripping down to bare feet and trousers, he set the machine running and started warming up tight muscles as he ducked and dodged its swings.
He wasn't a complete bastard, but he'd always presumed the arrangement he and Adele shared suited them both. And if it didn't, then it didn't truly matter for they'd both been at odds. A cold war of words begun the day he slipped the engagement ring on her finger, which had only escalated the closer their wedding day loomed. While he certainly hadn't been entirely innocent, neither had she.
Yet....
It was almost as if he'd come to enjoy the daily trading of barbs, the swift uppercut he received in return. The second her face lit up with the intense flash of emotion when they sparred, he'd known he'd won, but there were moments when his jaw would clench and he'd be forced to concede the floor to her.
Their marriage was a battleground, a constant lingering tension, and yet he couldn't deny that Adele was the only woman of his acquaintance who wasn't afraid to go toe-to-toe with him. He'd even secretly respected her for it.
Everything had changed in the blink of an eye.
A single photograph.
His wife in another man's arms.
Or.... If he was being honest with himself, this shifting of axis—the complete skewing of his life with Adele—had begun the day she'd given him blood in the Tower.
Attraction simmered between them.
It always had, though he'd been forced to confront the truth of it that day.
To admit to himself that he desired his wife.
Try as he might, he'd never been able to stop his eye from lingering on her nape as he came across her dashing out some sort of correspondence in the library. Toying absently with her pearls, her fingers drawing his attention to the smooth curve of her breasts. Nibbling on the end of her pen, those soft full lips parted slightly. Sometimes he'd pause, and take the moment to peruse her while she was unaware of him.
In those moments, she seemed a different woman entirely, and it hadn't escaped his attention that he was curious about that woman.
Curious about the swift wit that flashed behind those expressive eyes. Curious about the soft gasp she'd made when he came back to himself in the tower, and found himself clasped between her thighs, her blood wet across his lips.
Curious about the whisper of silk behind the locked bedroom door that marked the edges of their respective territory.
The sound of her sheets rustling as she slipped between them chastised him each and every night. When he did sleep, he woke hard and aching, with her perfume in his nose.
And somehow, somewhere along the line, the bloody woman had begun to slip under his skin. No longer an enemy. Not quite a wife. Where then, could he place her?
Malloryn drew to a halt as the automaton ran through its cycles, his bruised knuckles slamming one last blow into its poor defenseless midriff. Who was he fooling? Certainly not Gemma.
And certainly not yourself.
Adele was proving dangerous.
He... liked her.