My Lady Quicksilver

Sixteen

The door opened and Rosalind didn’t waste time to see if he’d gotten himself free. She could hear him straining, a low growl of frustration echoing in his throat as he fought the manacles. The steel wouldn’t hold him in this state. Not for long.

Shoving her shoulder against the door, she staggered into the tunnel—looked like an old maintenance tunnel of some sort, with a pair of torches burning steadily in their niches.

Grabbing a handful of skirts, she started running.

Behind her, a thwarted roar echoed as she escaped. The sound sent a chill down her spine, her footsteps lengthening in response. Had to get away. If he caught her—

The door at the end of the tunnel was locked. Rosalind jerked at the knob, then slapped her steel hand against it in frustration. “Damn you!”

Behind her silence fell.

Rosalind turned slowly, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting. At the end of the tunnel, a dark figure stepped free of the cell, moving with an eerie, predator grace. He stopped and stared at her, his eyes black with fury and need and hunger.

Rosalind yanked a pin from her hair and spun around, jamming it in the lock. “Come on,” she murmured, jiggling it until she felt it catch. “Come on!” A glance over her shoulder showed him stalking toward her, taking his time, knowing she couldn’t escape. Rosalind slammed her fist against the door, dinting it. By some stroke of luck the lock clicked. She yanked at the door, sucking in a frightened hiss of breath between her teeth as it opened.

“NO!!!”

Lynch’s scream of rage echoed in the tunnel and Rosalind barreled through the door, slamming it behind her. There was a key on a hook beside the door and she thrust it into the lock and twisted it, staring through the thin window slit as Lynch thundered toward her.

“Damn you, come on!” The lock snicked and Rosalind staggered away from the door as he hit it.

The hinges screamed in protest, dust shaking off the stone walls. Rosalind met his eyes and saw nothing human there. Not the man she knew. Not the man she cared for. Here was her own secret fear, staring at her with cold, hungry eyes.

His fists wrapped around the bars and he wrenched. The iron screamed, bending like Indian rubber. Rosalind turned and ran up a flight of stairs.

Behind her, an enormous crash echoed.

Faster, her lungs screaming for air. She threw a glance over her shoulder and saw something move in the shadows behind her.

A door appeared in the wall. Rosalind crashed through it, slamming it shut behind her and locking it before she turned and collapsed against something in the dark. Her fumbling fingers found a smuggler’s lantern and a packet of matches. Striking one, she lit the lantern’s wick with shaking fingers.

Something hit the door. Rosalind jumped. A table stood in the center of the room, with benches around the sides. She hurried behind it, though the table would be small help.

Crates of iron balls gleamed in the flickering light, with little clock faces strapped to them. Rosalind ran her fingers over one, feeling the thin seam that ran around the middle. There had to be dozens here. Enough to drive a whole horde of blue blood’s mad. Just what were the mechs planning?

Another jolt shuddered the door. Rosalind spun, her gaze raking the room for anything to help her. Metal tools hung on the wall, signs of a mech’s trade. She grabbed a file and clenched it in her fist, hunting for something sharper. A rack of bottles lined the far wall, the glass gleaming as she lifted the lantern and brought it closer. Taking out the cork, she sniffed at the colorless liquid. The same sickly sweet scent she’d recognized in the cell made her jam the cork back in.

A deafening silence fell, making her heartbeat thunder in her ears.

Then a fist came through the door.

Rosalind screamed, dropping the lantern on the bench and spinning to face him. Her gaze fell on a pile of goods on a small table near the door. A dart gun with the bright blue feathers of a hemlock dart.

Lynch groped for the key, turning it in its lock. Then his hand withdrew, the knuckles bloody. Slowly, so slowly, the handle turned.

Rosalind pressed herself back into the bench. Nowhere to run. Nothing to fight him with. If only she could get to the dart gun.

The door slowly opened. Darkness entered, materializing into a man she barely recognized. His black hair gleamed in the lantern light, the flame flickering off his obsidian eyes. Stark light carved out the refined features of his face and broad shoulders.

“Lynch?” she whispered.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling. Slowly he shut the door. Then locked it. For a moment his head bowed, as if some part of him still fought for control. Then he started toward her.

Each step was mesmerizing, his power and grace so dangerous it stole her breath.

Rosalind swallowed. No point running or fighting. Either would only rouse his hungers. “Would you like…another button?” she whispered, lifting her hands to the tiny buttons that curved up her bodice. Her fingers jerked and the top button tore, pinging away to the floor. The lavender cotton was almost ruined anyway.

Lynch stilled, his gloved hand sliding over the end of the table as if in thought. Rosalind tore another button free, discarding it with haste.

Then another.

“Do you remember the observatory?” she asked, tugging the tiny buttons free desperately.

His gaze dipped, running heatedly over the exposed skin of her décolletage.

“That’s it,” she whispered, taking a sidelong step around the table. Closer to the door—and the dart gun.

He didn’t like that. Rosalind stilled as the muscles in his thighs bunched. Reaching up, she slowly shook out the last few pins in her hair, letting it tumble down over her shoulder in bright, coppery coils. Lantern light made it gleam richly against her pale skin and the hungry look in his gaze hardened.

“You’re mine,” he said coldly.

Then he was on her. Rosalind barely had time to suck in a sharp breath as his hand sank into her hair and wrenched her head back. She caught a fistful of his shirt and bit back a scream as his mouth slashed down over hers.

Lynch devoured her, slamming her back against the wall. A crate dropped off the bench and those little metal balls rolled everywhere as his tongue thrust, hot and hard, against hers. Rosalind melted against him, her knees giving way as a surge of relief filled her.

“Yes,” she almost sobbed, grabbing a fistful of his hair.

Lynch caught her up beneath the thighs, sliding her onto the bench as he kissed her desperately. She couldn’t draw breath, couldn’t escape him. He was all over her, his huge body wrapping around hers with a possessiveness she couldn’t fight. His teeth sucked her bottom lip between them and he bit her, one hand shackling her right wrist.

But at least he hadn’t drawn blood. Yet.

Rosalind whimpered, wrapping her legs around his hips as she kissed him back with a fierceness born of relief. She couldn’t let him go. Not for a second. If she did, then she might lose him.

The door slammed open and a man burst in, dressed all in black leather.

“No!” she screamed as Lynch tore himself from her arms and leaped toward the stranger. The Nighthawk.

If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought he placed his body between them, an almost protective gesture. But then it couldn’t be true. He wasn’t thinking right now. Only reacting.

Their bodies met, Lynch slamming the Nighthawk against the wall. The man’s eyes widened in shock. “Sir?”

“He’ll kill you!” she yelled.

The stranger’s icy blue eyes flickered to hers, then he shoved an elbow into Lynch’s face that snapped his head up. A grim expression crossed the stranger’s face—utterly ruthless.

Lynch went for his carotid but the man chopped a fist into Lynch’s throat and locked an ankle behind his. They both went down, the Nighthawk fighting desperately.

There was no finesse to Lynch’s movements. He was stripped down to the basics of survival, barely protecting himself, intent only on the kill. Yet his rage and strength were unstoppable.

Rosalind slid off the bench slowly, her eyes on the dart gun. Inching toward it, she flinched as Lynch drove his man face-first onto the ground. His head lifted, tracking her movements. Rosalind swallowed, her fingers closing over the dart gun.

He came at her so quickly she could barely see it. Only years of training saved her life. She shot him from three feet away. He took one more step, his knees going out from under him as the hemlock raced through his veins.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as those black eyes met hers, strangely human in that moment. Betrayed. “So sorry.”