Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

somehow, he knew he couldn’t allow her to witness Cipher as the scum of Europe knew him. Brutal. Vicious. That gave him the

strength to keep his shields at bay.

“Clayton—”

Olivia’s distress worked in his favor. The maid sobbed louder. “He was dressed as a peasant. Gray hair. Full beard.”

But without the darkness, he had to bear the brunt of the distastefulness of this situation. Deal with the maid’s cries. Hear his father’s

voice reminding him to be a gentleman no matter the woman. Remain unflinching under Olivia’s concern.

“What was he wearing?” Clayton asked. He’d find his answers even with his blasted emotions interfering.

“A heavy coat. Fur cap. Felt boots. But I don’t know his name.” She lifted her head before ducking it.

Her face was red and splotchy, but no tears. None at all.

His guilt dissolved. And he knew how to get his results. “You can continue to sob fake tears or you can tell me the truth and perhaps

survive this.”

Iryna looked up, suddenly silent. Clayton hauled her to her feet, pushed her against the wall, and put the knife to her throat.

Olivia inhaled sharply.

“Tell me the truth, and I’ll give you a head start before I tell Golov.”

Iryna paled, her nostrils flaring as she breathed. But her face twisted. “You won’t live long enough to tell him anything. Everyone in

Prazhdinyeh has orders to kill you. From the leaders to the lowliest recruits. And the reward is big. Do you know how many people in

this household alone sympathize with the revolutionaries?”

Considering the prince had been one of the key generals in Prazhdinyeh before he’d been persuaded to change sides, probably far

too many.

He pressed the knife to Iryna’s throat. “How much did they tell you about me?”

“That you’re an English spy who works for the emperor.” The word was filled with loathing.

He kept his tone conversational. Calm terrified people far more than all the anger and bluster he could try. “Did they tell you how

many men and women I have killed? How I’m quite well-known for being able to slit a throat so cleanly that the person is drenched in

their own blood before they feel the bite of my knife?”

She’d break soon. He saw it in the wildness of her eyes and the sway of her body. “How do they give orders?”

Iryna’s throat worked nervously against the knife. “Everyone has two people they pass along news to.”

If the orders were passed by word of mouth, there’d be no help for the code there. “Who are your contacts?”

Iryna reluctantly gave the names.

“And which one gave you the bomb?”

“Barndyk.”

He stepped away from her. “You have five minutes before I inform the police.”

She started for the door, but he spoke before she could flee. “Before you think of joining your revolutionaries, know that I’ll be quite

truthful with your friends about who betrayed them.”

She gripped the door frame to keep upright. “You’ve killed me.”

“Perhaps. But I’ve given you a chance, which is far more than you intended for Miss Swift.”

Iryna fled.

He locked the door again, keeping his gaze on the small brass key in the lock rather than looking at Olivia. “I do what I must to get

answers.”

“I know,” she answered quietly.

“It got us results.”

“Are you going to vomit?” she asked.

“No.” She shouldn’t be able to read him that well. He focused on calming the nausea churning in his gut. He’d thought such reactions

banished long ago. He could hardly strike fear into the hearts of his enemies if they knew he’d cast up his accounts for two days

after his first kill.

This was what came of allowing Olivia to weaken him.

Yet when she cupped his cheek, he leaned into her touch. The shared moment didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like . . . completion.

He wanted more than a simple touch. He wanted to lose himself in her lips again. He wanted to explore the delicate texture of her

skin. Savor it.

But he couldn’t be the kind of man to savor things. He needed to be the kind of man to keep her alive. “We’ll finish cataloguing the

books and papers. Then we’ll find a new place to stay.” There were too many dangers surrounding them here. Without knowing who

else answered to Prazhdinyeh, they wouldn’t be safe. There’d be far too many opportunities to be poisoned, stabbed, shot, tossed

down the stairs. The list was nearly endless.

He wouldn’t allow Olivia to remain here.

“What we need now is speed,” he said.

Olivia straightened. “Then let’s gather the books and get to work.”

Nearly finished. Her hand had long ago cramped as they sat side by side at a table in the icy room. A servant came to light the

stove, but Clayton refused to let him enter.

Instead, he’d wrapped a blanket from the bed around them both, which meant since Clayton was writing with his left hand, their

elbows constantly collided. Olivia supposed she should offer to switch sides, but every now and again his arm would brush against

the side of her breast. The accidental caresses stole her breath.

He didn’t notice. He was so focused on scribbling down the titles in front of him.

With a sigh, she wrote the final title from Vasin’s writings.

She rolled her wrist to regain blood flow and tilted her head slightly, unable to resist watching Clayton as he wrote.

She’d never studied his chin from this angle. A tiny white scar highlighted one edge of his jaw, so small it might have resulted from

shaving. She smiled at the idea of Clayton being human enough to nick himself.

The scar was in the exact place he’d held the knife on Iryna.

Olivia raised a finger to his chin, brushing the line there. “Who held a knife to your throat?”

“How did—”

She tapped the same spot. “You have a scar.”

“I was cornered by a Spanish guerrilla who wanted information.” He could have been discussing the weather.

“What happened?”

“I killed him with his own knife.”

So blunt.

“Horrified?” he asked.

She should be, but she wasn’t. “No. I’m glad you survived.”

Although his expression didn’t change, his exhale was long, as if he’d been holding his breath.

Knowing she was being far too bold, Olivia drew her finger farther up his jaw until she reached the hollow under his ear. She kept

waiting for him to bat her hand away, but when he remained motionless, she ran her finger along his throat, relishing the small

vibration as he swallowed. She then trailed down his shoulder until she reached his right hand that awkwardly held the blanket.

“What happened to your hand?”

“The French. I waited at a meeting point to warn Madeline we’d been betrayed.”

“But if you’d been betrayed—”

“I knew I’d be captured, but she was spared.”

The more time she spent in his company the more flawed and selfish she felt by comparison. She was holding so many lies,

concealing so many truths.