Chapter Eight
Cool quiet greeted Jack as he entered the solace of his room. He loved that first moment of truly being alone in a secure space. It stripped a layer away from him, as if taking off his greatcoat. He’d never had a home that was solely his, not really. But thanks to Ian Ranulf, he’d had a room and a position as part of a pack. At the end of a long day, Jack liked nothing better than to shut his door, lie upon his bed, and read a good book. No one knew, of course. And he’d deny it if asked, but it was the truth. He craved his own personal space like he craved air.
It had hurt when Ian first urged him to go with Lane. Jack wasn’t an idiot. He knew what Ian was doing. Throwing him out of the nest. Perhaps he had hidden behind the walls of Ian’s home for too long. He was man enough to admit that at least.
Now he was tired. The damned demon had eluded him all day. Jack craved a stiff drink and a short nap before heading out once more. Shrugging out of his coat and tossing it aside, Jack had taken two steps when he stopped short. He wasn’t alone. His knife was in his hand and he was whirling around to face his bed in an instant, knowing in the back of his mind that he’d have already been dead if it was a true attack. When he saw what greeted him, all available blood within his body surged south, and his heart pounded. Great, hot f*ck. His knife hand shook before he clenched it tight.
His gaze sought the particulars first, the lithe length of her legs, a tiny peek of a tawny nipple through gauzy silk, the dark, seductive shadow at the apex of her thighs. Reclined upon his bed like some sort of modern day Salome, wrapped in swaths of diaphanous gold silk and smiling with coy promise. Mary Chase. In his room. Ruining the sanctity of it.
He swallowed twice before his mouth worked. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” Revenge, if he had to guess.
Her smile grew, and little dimples broke out on her cheeks. He wasn’t aware that she had dimples. Jack mentally shook himself and tightened his grip on the knife. His blood pounded through his veins, straight to his cock, damn it all.
“I asked you a question,” he said when she didn’t answer.
With her usual grace, she rose to her knees, and that thin fabric shifted, lovingly caressing her slight curves. “I should think that obvious, Jack.”
Jack? He wasn’t aware that she even knew his first name. He didn’t trust her an inch and would rather face a full-turned werewolf or a blood-starved demon before he touched her. But he could look. So he let himself, doing so with insolence, lingering on places that made him go hot. “I knew you’d have superior tits,” he drawled, hoping she’d slap him and get out.
She only smiled and slithered out of the bed, heading toward him. His skin grew tighter, hotter. Piss and shit, she was going to touch him. He backed up a step but halted when she grinned at the movement.
Her low, caramel-thick voice drifted over him. “I am tired of fighting, aren’t you?”
“Not particularly.”
Her cinnamon spice perfume surrounded him before she did. “I do wonder, Jack, why you deny what is so plain to see.” Slim, hot arms wrapped about his neck, and soft breasts pressed against his chest. He forced himself to look down into her eyes. Those wide, golden eyes could beguile a man in an instant. They gleamed now, not golden but her more human light brown. Petal soft lips touched his ear. “Why you don’t take what you want.”
“Because I don’t want you.” He didn’t. His insides twisted from being this close to her, but his body didn’t seem to care.
As close as she was, she felt the reaction, and a soft chuckle rumbled against his skin, making it twitch. “Liar.”
It wasn’t right. She wasn’t right. She was too compliant. Too easy. A shiver of warning, touched with icy fear, lit down his spine an instant before her palm cupped his cheek, and she drew his mouth down to hers. Cold, dead. He reared back, a shout bubbling up, but iron-hard hands held him fast as a tongue snaked into his mouth and down his throat in a river of white-hot fire. Into his belly, tearing into his soul. And then he was screaming.
The heavy weight of silk satin settled upon Poppy’s shoulders, and she resisted the urge to squirm. There were worse things than getting trussed up in a dinner gown, she was sure; she just could not think of them at the moment. The color of a pink rose in bloom, the gown Mary Chase laced her into was inarguably beautiful. Held up by sleeves that were thin enough to be called straps, the low squared-off bodice did surprising wonders to Poppy’s meager bosom. And while the style of the day, according to Daisy and Miranda, was to adorn one’s dress with as much frills and laces as possible—thus giving a woman the appearance of a flower, which really made Poppy want to roll her eyes—this bodice was utterly smooth and devoid of ornamentation. For which Poppy was thankful. The skirt, however, was another matter.
Mary gave the bodice a final tug, and Poppy expelled a pained breath as Mary moved on to fuss with the gown’s more problematic area, namely the overskirt, with its numerous drapings, train, and whatnot. Bloody hell, but there were so many yards of undulating pale pink that Poppy could barely feel her own legs. They’d been smothered.
In an effort not to panic, she smoothed a hand over the tight waist of her bodice and glanced down at Mary, whose mouth had a decidedly unhappy pinch about the corners. “You are certain that you do not want to join us for dinner?” Poppy could not give an apple in Eden about the rules.
“No, mum.” Mary fluffed the overskirt, her nimble fingers making certain the draping rested just so. “I believe it would be a good time to make another round of the ship.”
“Good thinking.” Poppy took a breath and, not getting nearly enough air in the blasted torture chamber of a dress, took another. “I wish I could go with you.”
Her palm still held the memory of Win, the weight and feel of him. Admittedly, she had played rather dirty. But the man knew precisely how to drive her to madness. Which both vexed her and secretly thrilled her. Regardless, she wasn’t keen on coming face to face with him just now. He had to be… smarting.
Hands hovering around her middle, she took a light breath and glanced back down at Mary. “You will be careful.”
Mary rose in an effortless glide. “Of course. I intend to roam in the astral plane.” Which meant her body would be tucked safely in her room as her spirit slipped into all sorts of places Poppy could not go. Mary reached for Poppy’s evening fan, a confection of white lace, blush pink satin, and white painted cast iron supports that could crack a bone with one good whack. A clever little weapon, as most males viewed a lady’s evening fan as frippery. Their mistake. Mary turned back, and the lamplight shone on her slim upper arm. A scratch marred her skin, not a gash, but deep enough to have drawn blood.
Poppy moved to touch it, but stopped when Mary flinched and averted her eyes. “What happened?”
Looking away, she fiddled with Poppy’s evening gloves. “I lost my balance and had a run-in with a call box.”
She looked so thoroughly disgruntled that Poppy almost smiled. “Yes, well, call boxes have been known to be a nuisance now and then.”
Mary’s cheek twitched as if she were fighting a smile, or a frown, as she stepped back and looked over Poppy with a critical eye. Poppy refused to squirm but stood like the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, hoping that she’d pass muster.
Mary smiled with satisfaction. “More than enough to make Mr. Lane remember.”
Poppy expelled a nervous laugh. “I do not believe Mr. Lane has a faulty memory.” No, it worked all too well.
Mary shook her head slowly. “He is suffering. Anyone can see it.” Her grin was cheeky then. “I’d wager that he will suffer a bit more before the night is out.”
Poppy might have answered but Winston walked in. How he always knew to appear the precise moment she was ready was a mystery. One that she put aside in favor of looking at her husband. Fitted out in crisp white-and-black evening kit that outlined his lean frame, he stood tall and just a bit defiant in the center of the room. His shaggy hair had been tamed and swept back from his strong face. And while she was sure there were those who would stare at his scars and not the man beneath, all she saw was a man who’d been to hell and back, and was tougher for it. Like steel wrought and forged, he’d transformed into something more than before.
Soulful eyes of blue-grey travelled over her, taking in her elaborate coiffure and evening gown with one glance. Not a glimmer of appreciation or emotion in that look. His voice was as crisp as his suit. “Shall we?”
Suffering, was he? Hardly. Poppy stiffened her spine. “Of course.”