Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(67)

Sev walked a sharp line toward him. The closer he approached, the more alarmed Malcolm appeared, his eyes widening at whatever he read in Sev’s face.

“Where is she?” Sev spat.

“Wh-what are you talking about? Who?”

Sev’s hands flexed at his sides. Savage fury hummed through him. “I will ask you only one more time. Where is Grier?”

Malcolm started to shake his head, and then he stopped, paused, cocking his head to the side in a considering manner. As if relenting to the truth, he sneered, “Somewhere you’ll never find her.”

Sev lunged for him, an animallike growl erupting from his throat as he ripped Malcolm free from the grooms who held him captive.

They crashed to the parquet floor with bone-jarring force. Sev straddled him, striking him again and again until he couldn’t feel his hands anymore, until his knuckles were slick with blood—until several grooms stepped in and pulled him off.

“Where is she?” he shouted, rage and desperation riding hot in his chest, tightening his lungs so that every breath felt raw and anguished. As anguished as he felt inside.

Malcolm laughed maniacally, staggering to his feet. He pressed a hand to his profusely bleeding nose. “Good luck finding her.”

Sev lunged free and grabbed for him, ready to rip him apart.

Malcolm dodged and dove out the door.

Sev followed, chasing him down the path.

Malcolm looked over his shoulder, laughing wildly. “Guess you’ll have to start all over again looking for a bride! I’m sure that will prove no small feat considering the last one—”

The rest of his words were lost, twisting into a scream that shattered the cold night as he stepped into the path of an oncoming carriage.

Malcolm went down, crumpling beneath razor-sharp hooves and spinning wheels. The horses screeched as they plowed over him.

The carriage slowed several yards away, but Sev’s gaze rested on the still, broken body in the middle of the street. Sev reached the middle of the street first. Others soon joined him, morbid fascination drawing them like moths to the flame.

As he gazed down at the dull, unseeing eyes of his cousin, he felt nothing. No sorrow for the bastard who stole Grier from him . . . and quite possibly murdered her. Nothing.

A shudder racked him. With a gulp of icy air, he swung back toward his house. Countless people poured from the townhouses lining up and down the street to examine the spectacle of a dead body.

Then he remembered the coachman. He rushed back inside, unwilling to accept that Grier was gone, lost from him and this world. Vaulting up the steps to his townhouse, he shoved his way through the crowd of servants, relieved to see the driver still restrained—that he had not managed to slip away in the chaos.

Grabbing him by the front of his frock coat, Sev shoved his face close. “Where is she? Where did you take them?” He gave him a good shake. “If you’ve a wish to breathe another breath, you’ll take me there at once.”

The driver nodded fiercely, waving his hands helplessly between them. “Aye. I don’t want no trouble. We went to a cottage, an ol’ hunting box just outside Town. I’ll show you.”

Sev nodded, his heart tight and aching in his chest. He refused to believe she was gone. That he could have lost her. He’d have to see her with his own eyes . . . touch her lifeless body with his hands before he let her go.

And even then . . . he might never be able to do that.

The cold woke her, a bitter shroud that she could not escape. It clung like the worst of dreams. Shivering, Grier parted heavy eyelids to peer out at a predawn gray. Even though it wasn’t the brightest of light, she squinted against it. Stabbing sharp pain hit her everywhere. No part of her body was free of it.

Her last sight had been of murky night . . . and she’d been careening toward her death.

At that reminder, she sat up. Every nerve in her body screamed in protest and she fell back down, her cheek scraping the rough ground. She hissed at the newfound sting of pain, but supposed she should be glad for it.

Glad that she lived, that she felt anything at all.

Panting heavily, she scanned her surroundings. A frigid mist curled on the air like smoke. She could see nothing. Just the small stretch of ground she huddled upon and endless gray sky all around her.

Rolling onto her back on the hard ground, she looked up, her gaze following the endless stretch of rocky wall to her right.

She slid down that?

It was a miracle she survived.

Lying there for several moments, she listened to the howling wind and the birds chirping in the distance. The clouds’ underbellies looked swollen, threatening with rain or snow.

Gathering her strength, she breathed in and out before finally lifting herself up again, bit by slow bit. Every muscle strained in agony as she shifted herself into a sitting position. A hissing breath escaped between her teeth.

She assessed herself, checking for injuries. When she wiggled her right ankle, she winced and bit her lip against the sudden lancing agony that shot up her calf. She doubted she could stand without help.

Using blood-crusted hands, she dragged her body to the point where the ground appeared to break off and vanish.

She looked down. And down.

Far below a tiny stream trickled between banks dotted with snow and grass the color of withered straw. She’d never survive the fall. Nor could she climb down. Or up. Despair threatened to engulf her, but she shoved it away.