Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(36)

But this man—when he spoke of fighting for air—Hattie did not think he was speaking in metaphors.

Unable to stop herself, she lifted a hand and, moving slowly enough that he could stop her if he wished, she set her palm to his cheek, the warmth of it searing through her glove as the rough day’s growth of his beard caught on the soft kidskin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

It was the wrong thing to say. The muscles of his jaw tightened and his entire body turned to steel. She dropped her hand the moment he caught her gaze in his. “You suggest I wait for my funds to be returned, just as I wait now, for my knives to be so. Just as I was to wait last night—for the culmination of the arrangement we made.”

The agreement that he would take her virginity. That he would ruin her for all others. She didn’t need it now. Not if Augie was going to support her bid to run her father’s business. She didn’t need him or ruination.

But she wanted it. At this man’s skilled hands.

Her gaze dropped to the hands in question, fingers loosely curled as though, at any moment, he might have to do battle. She remembered the feel of those fingers on her skin. The rough calluses on his palms. The way they set her aflame.

She wanted them again.

“I don’t care for waiting, Lady Henrietta.” The low words, spoken a breath from her ear, sent heat coiling through her. “So let me ask again. What do I get from your deal?”

Last night, it had all seemed so simple. He’d agreed—albeit under duress—to take her virginity in exchange for his missing items. But last night, Hattie hadn’t known the missing items included forty thousand pounds in smuggled goods.

Dammit, Augie.

And now—she knew she lacked both leverage and power. This man called Beast somehow did not need the funds her brother had stolen, and he did not require the goods that had been parceled off to wherever they’d been sent. This was not about reimbursement, but about restitution. And that made him more benefactor than business partner.

Which meant Hattie had no choice but to surrender everything for the sake of the business. For the sake of her family. She took a deep breath and met Beast’s gaze, and sacrificed her only desire—a desire she hadn’t known she had until the night before. “I release you from last night’s negotiation.”

He remained silent, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

Did he even understand?

“My—” Hattie waved a hand. “Affliction.”

A dark brow rose.

“My virginity.”

Again, no reply.

He was going to make her say it. Lord knew Hattie had said it before. But did she have to say it to him? To this man who’d kissed her and made her feel like he wished it? “I understand that such an event . . . with me . . . is not exactly . . .” Ugh. This was awful. “I know you were being kind. Offering. But you needn’t—that is—I am well aware of the kind of woman I am. Equally so, the kind of woman I am not. And the kind of man you are . . . well, you prefer the kind of woman I am not.”

She closed her eyes tightly, willing him to disappear. When she opened them, he was, sadly, still there, still as stone. Which was unbearable.

“And what kind of woman is that?”

Like that, his presence was quite bearable, because that question became the new definition of unbearable. She drew the line at answering it. At saying any of the words that sprang to mind and tongue. Overlarge. Unappealing. “Never mind.”

Miraculously, he did not press. “No deal.”

Frustration flared. Frustration and anger and no small amount of disappointment. She’d worked for this business for her entire life, and here she was, on the precipice of losing it all. “Thirty percent.”

He did not reply.

Hattie lost her temper. “Fifty-two thousand pounds and a promise to never reveal your silly-monikered crime ring to the Crown—which would surely like to hear of it, by the way.”

“Is that a threat, Lady Henrietta?”

She sighed. “Of course it isn’t. But what more would you like from me? I’ve returned your knives and offered you money and the opportunity to be rid of me for the rest of time.”

“You still wear my knives.”

She reached for the fastening of the holster, unbuckling the leather with quick, economical movements, sliding it off her shoulders and ignoring the unsettling sense of loss of the weapons’ strange embrace. She dropped the knives at his feet, unceremoniously, resisting the urge to wince at the carelessness of the action.

“There. What more do you want?”

“I told you; I want retribution.”

“We go around in circles, then, sir. As I told you; I shan’t let you punish him.”

“Is he your lover?”

Hattie choked at the question. “No.”

A long stretch of silence ended with a nod and he turned away from her, stalking away, through the labyrinth of crates and casks.

“Why do you care?” she called after him. And why in hell had she asked such a question?

He considered a nearby crate, branded with an American flag. “I don’t make a habit of fucking other men’s women.”

Her heart began to pound at the word and the way it painted wicked, wonderful pictures. Not that she was willing to reveal such a thing. “Am I to think it noble that you ascribe to some nonsensical view of women as doe-eyed chattel who cannot make their own decisions about their bedmates?”