Page 53 of The Unweaver

Unthinking, her feet propelled her past the parlor and dining room, up the creaking stairs and down a dark corridor. Gas lamps flickered on as she passed a glass-walled conservatory, as humid and lush as a tropical rainforest. Her feet continued past the midnight blue bathroom and a masculine bedroom dominated by a four-poster bed.

The thumping grew louder when she neared the door at the end of the corridor. It pounded over her own heartbeat, pleading with her to unleash it. Her hand reached for the doorknob and—

A vice clamped around her wrist and snatched her hand away. She was spun around to face Bane, his features illuminated with cold fury. He backed her against the door, imprisoning her wrist beside her head. Obsidian eyes, blazing hellfire, bored into her.

“What are you doing?” he said, so soft she scarcely heard him over the loud thumping beyond the door. “I told you not to go near that fuckin’ door. Ever. It’s off-limits.”

She could only stare at him, dressed in a crisp three-piece suit with his hair slicked back, and grapple for why she was in front of the forbidden room. The press of his body sent her thoughts into disarray.

“S-sorry. I thought I heard something and… found myself here.”

Without loosening his grip, his gaze slid over her, as if he knew she wore only a thin chemise under her coat. Fury melted from his features, replaced with a different heat. “You’re at this door when I told you not to be,” he murmured. “You tried to shoot me when I told you that you wouldn’t. I wonder, Cora. What else would you do if I told you not to?”

The insinuation curled low in her belly. Her body remembered what her mind refused to acknowledge His muscles tensing beneath her hands in his office. Skin slidingagainst skin in the clawfoot tub. Soft lips kissing her senseless in the feverish imaginings of her unconscious.

Instead of frightening her, these glimpses of Malachy Bane coming undone left her curious for more. She wanted to muss his perfect hair, wrinkle his pressed suit. Thaw his coldness. Unmask and unravel him.

“Are you hungry, Cora?”

Her gaze shot to his. “What?”

He released her hand but didn’t move away. “Breakfast is ready.”

She rubbed her wrist, and he absentmindedly rubbed his own, with the arm that had been shot. “Your arm. It’s working again.”

“Astute observation.” He vanished.

She blinked at the empty corridor. “Irish goodbyes,” she muttered.

After several moments, she pieced her shattered composure back together. Imagining an angry man naked while he pinned her against a door was a novel experience. One she buried in the dark recesses of her mind.

The thumping had slowed and steadied, but its longing remained fierce. An unrelenting pull that slowed her steps away.

Hunger won out over the desire to avoid Bane for the foreseeable future. Following the mouthwatering scent of frying butter, she went downstairs and teetered on the threshold of the cozy kitchen.

If their earlier interaction was cause for concern, this abrupt domesticity was doubly so.

Morning light streamed through bay windows and a gramophone played a soulful jazz tune she didn’t recognize. Bane, his back turned, cooked something on the stove. She would have expected a man of his criminal prosperity to have a French chef on staff.

“Going to stand there all fuckin’ day?” he said without turning, his tone more teasing than reproachful. At her continued silence, he glanced over his shoulder and arched a brow.

“That depends. Are you going to get mad at me some more?”

“That depends.” He flipped the pan with an expert flick. “Are you going to do something to deserve it?”

“Probably.”

Lips curving, he gestured at the teapot on the counter. “Drink up. Sure to be another manky day.” Amusement colored his expression as he watched her pour a cup and drop in cube after cube of sugar. “Would you like any tea with your sugar?”

She lifted her chin and added a fifth cube. The sugar rations were over, not that Bane had gone without any luxury during the war while the rest of London starved.

She sat at the kitchen table with the steaming cup clasped between her palms. The first sip of tea, syrupy sweet and scalding, drove away yesterday’s residual chill. As her muscles relaxed, she observed Bane under her lashes. After all the horrors of the last week, the Realmwalker was now cooking her breakfast.

“What are you smirking about?”

“I am not smirking. I’m not,” she insisted at his pointed look. “All right. Fine. It’s just… Malachy Bane is making me breakfast.”

“No, Malachy Bane is making himself breakfast.” He slid a loaded plate in front of her. “You just happen to be here.”

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