The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(96)

Then, when you were Ryker Black, you could break any rule, especially your own.

“Diggory’s dead, and cannot harm you, ever again. You did that, Helena. You slayed that demon.” That lethal whisper sent a chill rolling along her spine. How casually he spoke about her firing a bullet through Diggory’s head in the alley that day.

“I am not worried about Diggory,” she said quietly, and ran her fingers along the back of her shellback chair. It was the inevitable warfare that would come in taking down the leader of The Devil’s Den.

He took a step closer, his eyes thin, impenetrable slits trained on her. “You wish to go back,” he continued, not allowing her a chance to reply. “Even as Wilkinson’s wife tried to off you, you’d return to that world.” Wilkinson. Not “Father.” Not “our father.” That same man he so disdained, had, in committing his wife to Bedlam, ultimately chosen right over that noble tie.

Helena passed a sad gaze over her brother’s face. “Oh, Ryker, you look to the nobility and see them as all the same.” He saw the Duchess of Wilkinson’s treachery and not the duke’s kindness. Or Diana’s bravery in running for help inside the Hell and Sin Club that day, and ultimately ruining her name and reputation. Guilt stabbed at her heart. “You judge me for not judging them?” A sharp laugh escaped her. “You are so consumed by your hatred of those people, that you have become blinded by it.” Two months ago, she would have bit her cheek to keep from uttering words that would upset Ryker and her place in this universe. Not any longer. As much as she’d prided herself on her strength, she’d not truly been strong in asserting her place—inside this club, and inside her family.

A muscle ticced at the corner of his right eye, but he gave no other outward reaction to her charges. “I do hate them,” he said in the most revealing words he’d shared with her, ever. “But with Westfield risking his own neck and coming for you, he has my respect.” Which for a man who respected few, and liked even fewer, was saying much, indeed.

She shook her head sadly. Of course, Ryker would honor that ultimate act of bravery and foolhardy act of selflessness. But it would never blot out the years upon years of hatred he’d carried. Instead, he’d see her love of Robert, Diana, their father, as a testament of her weakness. “Is there anything else you require?” she asked tightly.

Ryker shook his head. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left.

She stared at the oak panel, and let the tension out of her shoulders. As a girl her life had existed with definable blacks and whites. There had been no confusion or questions about her place in the world. As a woman who was scarred and marked by the streets of London, that place could have never been clearer. Somewhere along the way, she’d begun to dwell in a netherworld of grey, where everything she’d believed had proven remarkably more complex.

Abandoning work for the day, Helena snapped her ledgers closed, and swiped her spectacles from the desk. Striding over to the door, she pulled it open and stepped out into the hall.

She started down the same familiar path she’d traveled so many times . . . and froze.

Her gaze caught and held upon the small scrap of purple. Unbidden, her legs carried her over to that leafy vegetable. Stealing a look about, she dropped to her haunches and picked up the cabbage leaf, holding it close to her eyes. Her heart pounded hard as she pushed to her feet and followed a trail of those purple scraps that abruptly ended outside her chambers.

Heart in her throat, Helena stood at the wood panel, and then pressed the handle.

She blinked, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened space, and stepped inside.

The air left her on a soft gasp.

Purple blooms blanketed her room, leaving a colorful trail to her empty bed, which was covered with flowers. Tears filled her eyes, and she searched for him. A thrill of knowing, a charged connection they’d always shared, went through her, and she slowly turned.

Robert stood framed in the doorway. “Helena,” he murmured in that mellifluous baritone that had cracked her defenses from their first meeting.

“Robert,” she whispered. What was he doing here?

Arms filled with several leather books, he stepped inside, and continued coming toward her, until his long-legged stride ate away the distance between them.

Her lashes drifted closed. Surely she’d conjured him with her need to see him.

“Do you know, Helena,” he said with such soberness, her eyes popped open. “I thought a good deal about your leaving.”

“D-Did you?” she managed, carefully watching as he settled his armful down on the purple irises littering her bed.

He inclined his head, and then retrieved something from his boot. “You forgot this.”

She followed his movements and took in the ruby-studded dagger in his large hand. Helena wetted her lips, and alternated her gaze between that long-forgotten dagger and the flowers scattered about her rooms. “I-Is that why you’ve come?”

A wistful grin pulled at Robert’s lips, as he drifted closer. He came to a stop, so only a hairsbreadth separated them. “Is that what you believe?” he asked, with a faint trace of amusement in his question. He palmed her cheek, and with that butterfly-soft caress, her lashes began fluttering.

She leaned into his touch. “I do not know why you are here.” Or how he’d even gained entry. Again.