The men of The Fallen Angel stood watch over their fallen comrade.
It had taken three men to carry Temple from the ring—Bourne; Asriel; and Cross, the club’s financier—and the trio was winded when they barreled through the great steel door into Temple’s private rooms—the place he had crafted for quiet and peace.
They’d cleared the large, low table, and lay him on it before lighting every candle in the room. Without needing to be asked, Asriel left in search of hot water, linen, and a surgeon, though there was no promise that a surgeon could help. There was no promise that anyone but God himself could help. And to the owners of The Fallen Angel, God had rarely taken kindly.
Cross moved with quick, economical precision to investigate the wound. “Stay awake, you heavy bastard. You’re too big to fall.”
Temple struggled. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said, his thoughts clouded and his tongue heavy. “I’ve a fight.” Cross angled one of Temple’s arms outward to test the location of the knife and Temple bowed off the pallet at the pain, fighting the movement.
“You’ve had a fight,” Justin, the club’s majordomo, said quietly from a few feet away. “You’ve had two.”
Temple shook his head, the movement loose, like a broken doll, a sign of delirium. “No. He’s run the dice too far this time. Too long. There are too many of them.”
Bourne came to hold him down, swearing harshly. “That was a long time ago, Temple. Years. We don’t run dice on the streets anymore.”
The door to the room opened, and neither man looked toward the sound. This room was as secure as if the King himself were here, clinging to life. If someone were entering, it was because they had access to the darkest secrets of the club.
“Justin, get back to the floor.” Chase had arrived. “We do not stop the fleecing of the aristocracy simply because Temple’s suffered a flesh wound.”
Bourne cut Chase a wicked look. “It took you long enough to get here.”
“I was the only one who remembered that we have a club to run. Where will Temple be if we bankrupt ourselves while he convalesces?”
Cross did not look up from the knife. “This is more than a flesh wound.”
Temple struggled against his partners’ hold. “I have to get to the fight! Bourne can’t beat them!”
“We beat them together,” Bourne said quietly, his face pale with frustration and worry. “We fought them together.”
Temple’s eyes shot open and he met Bourne’s gaze. “We will lose.”
Bourne shook his head. “Not with the devil on our side. Chase came.”
“I saved your ass then,” Chase said, leaning in, something catching in the words—something the founder of the Angel would never dream of admitting to. “I saved it then, just as we shall save it now.”
Temple shook his head. “I have to fight . . .” The words faded away, and he went limp on the pallet.
Bourne turned instantly to Cross, his voice gravel. “Is he—”
Cross shook his head. “No. Passed out.” He inspected the place where the knife was buried deep in Temple’s chest, thick and deep halfway between shoulder and breast. “It might not be fatal.”
The words lacked conviction.
“As none of us are doctors,” Bourne said, “you’ll forgive me if I am not comforted by your diagnosis.”
“It might be muscle. Nerve.”
“Pull it out.”
Cross shook his head. “We don’t know what that would do. We don’t know if it would—” He stopped, and the words rang in the room despite his not saying them. Kill him faster.
Chase swore, low and furious.
“Justin?” Cross called and the pit boss pushed his spectacles high on his nose, waiting for the order. “Summon the surgeon. And my wife.” The Countess of Harlow’s knowledge of human anatomy was impressive, and she was the closest they had to a doctor if the surgeon weren’t nearby.
Chase spoke low and dark. “And get me everything there is to know about Christopher Lowe.”
Bourne looked to Chase. “I presume he’s gone?”
“Lost in the fray tonight.”
Bourne swore, harsh and wicked. “How?”
“Security was so concerned about Temple, they forgot that their job was to protect the exits. I shall have all their heads. Every damn one.”
“They care for him,” Cross said.
A golden brow rose. “Interesting, that. Considering they could have captured his killer if they weren’t all wailing like banshees. They shall answer to me for behaving like children who lost their sweets.”
“You’re a cold bastard,” Cross said.
Chase ignored the words, instead turning to Bourne. “What happened to you?”
A bruise was blossoming on Bourne’s face, coloring his right eye socket black. Bourne scowled. “I would prefer not to discuss it.”
Chase did not seem to mind. “Where’s the girl?”
“Locked in Prometheus, where she belongs.”
Chase nodded. “Good. Let her think on what she’s done.”