He couldn’t possibly.
Except, it was precisely what she would have thought, if the situation was reversed.
And she and Temple were two sides to the same coin.
She would tell him everything once he’d won. All of it. From the beginning. She would tell him that the money belonged to the orphanage. That she fought for the boys, and nothing else. That she did not wish him ill.
That she wished him to win.
But for now, she had no choice but to watch the bout. Temple faced Kit—faced her—and she saw that this was nothing like the fight with Drake. There was emotion in his eyes this time. Anger. Fury.
More.
He dragged his foot through the sawdust in a powerful, undeniable beginning.
Or perhaps it was an end.
The fight began, and even now, Temple followed his own rules. Allowing Kit the first move. Her brother grabbed at Temple with vicious intensity, landing a blow to the eye.
She hadn’t expected the sound of flesh on bone, the way fists fell with hollow thuds. The way knuckles slapped against bone. The sound turned her stomach as she watched Temple take first one hit, then another, then a third. And then, as though he’d been counting the blows, offering them for free before forcing her brother to pay for them, he came at Kit the way she’d always heard he fought.
His fists landed like thunder, pummeling Kit’s abdomen and sides, until her brother turned from the assault, taking a moment to find his breath. To find his strength. And went at Temple again.
Perhaps he was named because he was built like stone, impenetrable. Unbeatable. As though the world could come to an end, and Temple alone would survive. His fists rained down upon her brother. Jabbing and crossing and cutting until Kit fell away, coming to rest on the ropes mere inches from her, one eye nearly shut from the blows.
She might hate him at times. He might no longer be the boy she’d known—the one she’d left—but he was still her brother. And she did not wish him dead. She pled with him. “Kit! Stop this! He’ll kill you!”
He met her gaze, and she expected to see pain or regret or surprise there . . . but instead, she saw something unexpected. Hatred. “You chose him.”
She shook her head, instinctively. “No.” It wasn’t true. Was it? She’d chosen the boys. She’d chosen their safety.
And then . . . somehow, she’d chosen Temple.
The thought shocked her. Dear God. Had she chosen him?
Would he allow it? Her gaze flickered to him, coming at them. Coming to fetch Kit. Temple’s eyes found hers instead. Cold. Hard.
Betrayed.
She hated that look. Couldn’t face it. Turned back to her brother, who smiled, the way he always had when they were children and he was about to do something that they would enjoy, but that would no doubt earn him a beating from their father.
And then he reached for the floor of the ring.
For her knife.
She saw the gleam of silver before anyone else.
Mara gasped and screamed out, “No!”
But it was too late. He went at Temple without finesse—with sheer, unmitigated force.
Her gaze flew to Temple, who was not watching Kit.
He was watching her.
Dear God.
“He’ll kill you!” The same words, now with a different meaning. “No!” She was a madwoman, breaking free of Bourne’s grasp and pushing toward the ring, grasping at the ropes, trying to get to Temple.
Trying to save him.
The words were lost in the roar of the crowd, in the way they seethed and barked and howled like dogs on the hunt for blood.
Kit gave it to them.
The knife landed hard and deep in Temple’s chest, blood blooming from it like a perverse blossom.
She froze at the sight, halfway into the ring as someone caught her by the waist, pulling her back with wicked strength. She didn’t notice her scream until it was out and earsplitting.
And, for the first time since he’d taken to the ring twelve years earlier, the Killer Duke fell.
She couldn’t stop watching, unable to tear her gaze from the awkward angle of his legs and the river of blood pouring from him, spreading dark and ominous over the sawdust on the floor. A tall, ginger-haired man was in the ring then, on his knees at Temple’s side, stripping off his coat, barking orders, bending over to inspect the wound.
And then Mara couldn’t see at all, her view blocked by the dozen men already in the ring, trying to get to him. Each eager to be the first to make the call.
“He’s dead!”
“No,” she whispered, refusing to believe it.
What had she done?
Temple was too strong, too big, too alive for it to be true. She struggled against the arms holding her in an iron grip, desperate to be free. Desperate to get to him. To prove the words wrong. “No. It can’t be true.”
The arms around her tight almost to the point of pain. Bourne’s voice was a vicious promise at her ear. “You shall pay dearly if it is.”
Chapter 12