The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(9)

Helena folded her arms at her chest. “I live here.” The place she’d lived for nearly half her life.

Calum snorted, and then matched her pose. “I know where you live. Do you, Helena?”

She gritted her teeth, and tamped down the endless barrage of questions and pleadings she’d put to all of her brothers through the years—to no avail. There were valid reasons for her to stay tucked away, but also, as a grown woman, in charge of the finances for the club, there was a grating restiveness inside her. What power did she truly have? In a place where lords ruled the polite world and ruthless men led the underbelly, women were left on the fringe of both. “I swear you’d all have me a prisoner in my own home,” she muttered under her breath. She cast a covetous glance at the door that shook under the force of the ribald laughter from the floor below.

Calum settled a large palm on her shoulder, and she stiffened. “There are rules for a reason,” he said, with gruff gentleness.

Since Ryker had rescued Helena, a girl of six, from Diggory’s clutches, he had ingrained into her the necessity of rules. There were only, and always, rules. She lifted her gaze and held Calum’s stare with an unflinching directness. “I am not a girl, anymore, Calum.” And yet, they all still saw her as wee Helena, in need of protecting. Now, just three inches shy of six feet, she towered over most men.

“No, you’re not a girl. You’re something far more dangerous.” He cuffed her under the chin. “You’re a woman.”

With a sigh, she started over to her desk. Yes, she was a woman, who straddled two worlds. She’d never belong amongst those toffs on the gaming hell floors, but neither would she be viewed wholly as a member of the Hell and Sin. Not as the youngest, protected sister of the lethal Ryker Black. “He’ll need at least ten more cases of brandy before the week’s through.”

Calum whistled.

His otherwise silence spoke more words than a Shakespearean novel. Helena’s ears burned with heat and she swallowed back the defensive words on her lips. In their world, you didn’t make excuses. You took ownership of your decisions and actions. Even if you weren’t entirely to blame. Still . . . “I advised him to buy a cheaper quality, and larger quantity.” Even as the words left her mouth, the futility of them registered.

Calum gave her a pointed look that only sent further warmth spiraling to her pale cheeks. Blasted pale skin.

“Ryker expects the best.”

She firmed her jaw, Calum’s meaning clear. Ryker expected the best for his clients, and accuracy from his employees. And her status as sister to the ruthless owner meant naught. What mattered was that all saw to their responsibilities and the establishment ran with a fluid efficiency that plumped the owners’ pockets.

Calum started for the door, and she called out. “Perhaps if I were permitted on the floors, and able to evaluate the habits of our guests—”

“No.” The steel in that one-word utterance should have killed her efforts.

“But—”

“Use the goddamn numbers, Helena.” Calum quelled her protest with a glare.

She tipped her chin up. Be it a brother or powerful lord, she’d not let a single person cow her. Just as Ryker, Calum, Adair, and Niall took pride in climbing from the mire of London’s streets to build an empire of wealth and power, so too did she find satisfaction in all she’d accomplished. The once snarling, cursing, illiterate girl from the Dials had developed a head for numbers that even her indomitable brother could never hope to rival.

Releasing her stare, Calum looked away. His gaze snagged upon the ledgers, and he motioned to them. “You don’t need to go on the halls in the midnight hours, Helena,” he said with gruff gentleness. “You have free walk of the floor during the day, and during the evening you have the books to tell you everything you need to know.”

Yes, those numbers taught her everything about the inner workings of the club . . . but nothing about the world beyond these increasingly suffocating walls. Helena fisted her hands at her side. She may as well be spitting in the wind with all of her protestations. “Tell him I’ll have additional numbers for him in the morning.”

Calum nodded, and started for the door.

“And Calum?” she called out. He turned back. “Also, tell him that he’d be wise to consider finding a new supplier. His liquor provider now is fleecing him and delivering broken bottles.”

A wry grin twisted his lips. “You may be frustrated with your circumstances, Helena, but you are deuced good at what you do.”

“I expect Diggory has gotten to his supplier.”

All hint of amusement fled, replaced with a somber set to his features.

Diggory, the leader of a gang who’d also risen up from the Dials, now ran The Devil’s Den. Where the Hell and Sin catered to all—merchants, nobles, and sailors on the street—Diggory’s hell catered only to the lowest rung of humanity.

“I’ll let Ryker know.”

She nodded, grateful when he took his leave. As soon as the door closed, she let the tension seep from her shoulders. Though Calum’s parting words and confidence would have inspired pride in most, for her, they only grated. Letting out a curse that would have shocked most thieves in the Dials, she began to pace. How she despised Calum’s too-astute statement. If he sensed her frustration, then so too did Ryker, and every other owner, guard, and prostitute in the club. And she hated that they saw . . . hated it mostly because they recognized that she herself wanted more than the gilded walls of this protective cage.