The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(5)

Cleopatra Killoran peeled back her lip in a sneer, answering before her brother. “And what did we do? Save her from being carved up like a Christmastide goose? Next time, we’ll not interfere and let your family suffer their fate.” She made to rise. “Come on, Broderick—”

“Did you just threaten my family?” Ryker whispered, halting the young woman midmovement.

And it would seem even the stupidly brave Cleopatra Killoran had sense enough to know some fear. The color leeched from her cheeks, and had Adair not been studying her closely, he’d have failed to note the slight tremble to her hands. The hellion did know fear. Of course, everyone did. Even the most vicious fighters in St. Giles.

“My sister was not—”

“I don’t make veiled threats,” she pronounced, a surprising strength in that retort. “I don’t mince words. You’ll know when you’re threatened, Black,” she vowed.

Ryker sized her up for a long moment, then shifted his focus back to her brother. “Someone set the blaze.”

Killoran dropped his negligent pose. “I give you my word that not a single one of my kin or myself are to blame.”

Adair’s body coiled tight. Surely his brother wasn’t naive enough to trust a Killoran for a second time. And yet . . . by the way in which he carefully eyed the man across from him, that is precisely what he did. Weighed his words and measured their worth.

Adair looked to Niall and found the same fury and frustration reflected back in his more hardened brother’s features.

And Killoran caught that weakening, too, and pounced. “We had an agreement,” Killoran pressed. “Why would I sacrifice that?” He chuckled. “I’d at least wait until my sister makes her match.”

That misplaced levity earned equal glowers from Adair, his family, and the man’s sister.

Ryker captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed.

Don’t you dare, Ryker, Adair thought. Don’t you dare cede a goddamned inch to these bloody bastards . . .

“You’ve already proven you aren’t to be trusted,” Ryker said at last, and Adair straightened. “Aligning yourself with Diggory marked the value of your pledge and the depth of your honor.”

If looks could kill, Miss Killoran would have scorched Ryker with the fire burning in her brown eyes. “Bastards,” she hissed, jumping to her feet so quickly she knocked her spectacles askew. “We’re done here, Broderick. We need nothing from a Black. Nothing.” She directed that to the men assembled. “It’s clear they never had any intention of honoring the agreement reached.”

“I was not in London last Season,” Ryker said tightly.

No, Calum had stepped in and filled the role of head proprietor when Ryker had been at his country estates for the delivery of his first babe.

Broderick Killoran chuckled. “How very convenient? Is it not, Cleo?”

“Indeed.”

Brother and sister shared a jaded, humorless laugh.

“My brother said we’re done here.” Adair took a step forward, tired of this game they played. “We’re done. We’ll not ask you again. Get—”

The door flew open, and as one, everyone sprang to attention, unsheathing their knives and training weapons at members of the opposing family. Adair briefly contemplated Broderick Killoran but ultimately settled his gun on the man’s unpredictable sister: a sister who already had her small silver pistol pointed at his head while brandishing a jewel-encrusted dagger in her other hand.

Ryker’s wife sprinted into the room. “What is the meaning of this?” Penelope cried out. It was a testament to Lady Penelope Chatham’s courage that she’d not run off, screaming and crying in terror, but rather advanced deeper in the room, past the strangers and family leveling their knives and pistols.

“Penelope,” Ryker commanded sharply, “we are in the midst of a discussion.”

The lady stopped in the middle of the room, two feet away from Broderick Killoran.

Adair took a step closer toward his sister-in-law, and Cleopatra Killoran waved her weapon in his direction. “Not a step,” she commanded.

“This is most certainly not a discussion,” Penelope said in beleaguered tones better suited for a governess scolding recalcitrant children than for addressing a room of London’s most ruthless kingpins. “Discussions are over tea and biscuits and not . . .”—she motioned to Miss Killoran’s hands—“knives and guns.”

Everyone eyed one another. No one made the first move.

“Ryker,” Penelope said sharply.

He shook his head.

And an unspoken language passed between the married couple. Only this wasn’t the language of the street. This was an intimacy of two who loved one another. Even as Adair loved his siblings as if they shared his own blood, this closeness was one he didn’t know, or understand.

Ryker entreated her with his eyes.

“Down,” she mouthed.

Her husband briefly closed his eyes, then slowly lowered his weapon to his side.

Penelope glanced about, lingering her gaze a long while on Cleopatra Killoran. “All of you, now.”

The bespectacled hellion was the last to comply. She dropped her pistol into the pocket sewn along the front of her gown. Then, hiking her skirts up slightly, she sheathed her knife inside a peculiar pair of black boots.