Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(113)

“Saviour always lived his life as though name was destiny,” he said with a little laugh. “And here you are, protecting him. Like a guardian angel.”

“I think you’ll find I’m far less angel than I am warrior.” She extracted her knife and took a step toward the awful man. “It is time for you to go, Ewan.”

His gaze fell to the blade, and he reached into his coat, extracting one of his own. No. Not his own. Whit’s. The missing blade she’d noticed earlier. She looked up at the duke, their enemy, fear rioting through her. And still, fury won out. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

“Does it belong to you?” He flipped it in his hand, offering her the hilt. She reached for it. Took it in hand, and he let it go. “Perhaps you are a gift to all of us.”

She heard hope in the words. A plea. Something else. “I can see why he loves you.”

In that moment, Hattie realized that Whit did love her. And she wasn’t leaving these docks until he told her. And this man was in the way of it. “Then you can see why I won’t let you take that from him.”

“Tonight”—he looked down the docks, past the empty boats to the massive cargo ship being unloaded—“this . . . none of it matters to them.”

She shook her head. “You taught them that. Money does not make power. Title does not make might. And none of it—none of it makes happiness.”

“Not like love.”

There was a truth in the words, clear and sad, and if it had been anyone else speaking them, Hattie would have ached with sympathy for him. But this man had spent a lifetime threatening the man she loved, and he could sod off. “Do you doubt my willingness to put a knife in you if you come for him again?”

“No.”

“My ability to do it?” She fairly itched to do it.

“I told him to give you up,” Ewan said. “Threatened to take you from him if he didn’t.”

The confession was unexpected and somehow utterly obvious. Of course Whit had pushed her away. He would have done anything to protect her. Her savior. Her gaze narrowed. “That was misjudgment.”

He nodded. “He wouldn’t do it.”

She shook her head. “No. I wouldn’t. You aren’t a specter to me. You aren’t my past. And you aren’t my future. I don’t fear you. And I will never give him up.”

Silence fell between them. And then, “You remind me of her.”

Grace. “From what I hear, that is a great compliment.”

“He told you about her?”

“Of course,” she said softly. “She is his sister.”

Something shifted in Ewan at that—something that Hattie could not explain except to say that he seemed to settle. “She was their sister,” he said. “But she was my heart.” His eyes flew to hers, and in the wild depths she saw his aching sadness. “He had a life with her, and now a life with you, and I had nothing.”

“You chose nothing.”

He looked to the docks, his gaze unfocused. “I chose her.”

Hattie did not reply. She didn’t have to. He was lost to thought. To memory. And after a long moment, he looked to her—his amber eyes so like Whit’s, and so empty of Whit’s passion—and said, “It’s over.”

Hattie let out a long breath. Relief coursing through her. “You won’t come for him again.”

“I thought I would know . . .” he said, trailing off. Then, again, the words rougher than before. More broken. “It’s over.”

The Duke of Marwick turned from her and walked away, as though he’d never been there at all. She watched him leave, tracking his movements until he was swallowed by the night and she could no longer see him.

She turned back to the docks, slipping the knife in her palm into her pockets, and made for the ship where men worked seamlessly to salvage what they could from the cargo of the ruined ship. Men she knew would stand shoulder to shoulder with Whit and Devil and the Bareknuckle Bastards any time.

She marveled at the long line of them, doing their backbreaking work, heaving ice and cargo, and there, silhouetted by the flames, and wielding a hook like he’d been born with it in hand, their leader. The man she loved, leading his troops.

A single word coursed through her as she traced his strong, broad form with her gaze.

Mine.

He disappeared, presumably down into the hold, to save more of the wreck, and Hattie made for him, crossing the long, barren dock to the ship, a hundred yards away, more resolute than ever.

She didn’t want the boats; she wanted him. She wanted him, and she wanted this life, next to him, on this burning dock. She wanted to be next to him on that burning boat. And if he refused to have her there, she would battle for him, reminding him every day that she did not need a protector. She only needed him.

She increased her pace, eager to close the distance between them and tell him just that.

Hattie had already crossed to the docks, walking close to the line of empty ships when she heard the shout behind her. Turning, she saw Ewan running toward her. She slid her hand into her pocket, palming Whit’s onyx blade, wondering what his enemy was going to do, prepared to sink it into his thigh, his shoulder, his chest—whatever was required.

He hadn’t reached her when the second explosion detonated—breaking the ship behind her into pieces, and sending them both flying.