Page 34 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
More hands on her, in places they had no right to be. Palming the curve of her arse, dipping between her thighs.
The void rose up to meet her. A siren song luring her into the cool, dark depths, an endless sea of forgetting. It would be so easy to sink beneath the surface. To close her eyes and let oblivion take her. Maybe this time, she wouldn’t have to resurface, wouldn’t have to drag herself back to a world determined to break her.
Favreau’s face swam out of the shadows behind her lids. Not smiling, for once. Grim and intent.
Get up, ma petite, he murmured, stroking a finger down her cheek.Pain is nothing to creatures like us. Show them why you’re mine.
Her eyes snapped open. The guttering embers of her fury stirred. Coalesced.
Became an inferno.
Her fingers closed around the hilt of her fallen blade, and she buried it in the bastard’s thigh.
He reared back with a bellow, his grip loosening. She tore away and staggered to her feet, ripping the knife free.
Her legs shook, barely willing to hold her weight. Black streaked through her vision. But she locked her knees. The buildings wavered as she stumbled out of the alley. Direction had lost all meaning, the world smearing in her periphery. An endless stretch of pain and putting one foot in front of the other. She had to get off the street. Her new bolthole was too far, an impossible distance in her current state.
But Emma . . .
No. It was too dangerous. She wouldn’t risk leading Favreau’s men to her sister’s doorstep.
Her shoulder collided with a wall, the impact igniting fresh agony along her left side. She bit back a whimper and blinked hard to clear the black fog crowding out her vision.
No choice, then.
She needed Emma to contact Callahan. She didn’t know where he lived, and his offer was the only way she would survive.
Isabel pushed off the bricks and stumbled forward, her battered body moving on pure instinct. She couldn’t remember going to the townhouse. Couldn’t recall navigating the twisting streets and alleys. But soon, the elegant façade of Kent’s brother’s home loomed out of the murk.
There. The second floor. Emma’s bedroom window.
Her shaking fingers found holds in the cracked mortar between the bricks as Isabel heaved herself up the wall. Determination propelled her onwards.
Emma, Emma, Emma.
At last, her groping fingertips located the sill. She hauled herself up and over, tumbling into the darkened room beyond. Pain exploded through her body as she hit the floor.
Distantly, she heard a gasp. The clatter of a fallen candlestick. Then gentle hands were smoothing over her shoulders, turning her onto her back. “Isabel. Isabel. Open your eyes. What happened? How did you find me here?”
Isabel grimaced. “Ambush . . . barely escaped this time. Watched you . . . to make sure you were safe.”
She might have slipped into unconsciousness then, but Emma gave her another shake.
“Stay with me, Isabel. Look at me.”
With a soft groan, Isabel forced her eyes open once more. “Didn’t know where else to go.”
11
Isabel had almost died three times in her life.
The first time, she was fifteen years old, huddled in a Parisian alley. She remembered how the cold had seeped into her bones, how the world had faded to a hazy grey, and then . . . nothing until Emma’s frantic voice had pulled her back.
The second time, she was seventeen. Favreau’s knife had slid between her ribs in punishment, but she’d clawed her way back to consciousness days later.
The third time was now.
Or perhaps it had been yesterday. Or the day before. She drifted in and out of awareness, caught between waking and dreaming. Sometimes, she thought she heard voices – Emma’s soft murmurs, unfamiliar tones laced with concern. At one point, she’d groaned a protest as the perfunctory touches of a doctor examined her.
