Page 85 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
A smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Is that what you think? That you being here is happenstance? That the intelligence the Office so deftly snared, the trail of intrigue you’ve followed to this very moment, is anything but a lure?”
Stupid. Stupid, stupid,stupid.
She tasted copper on her tongue. She’d bitten her cheek. “Ramsgate? His research—”
“Oh, his research is genuine. He served as bait, you see. A novel little puzzle meant to whet the Home Office’s appetite and draw out their latest asset. And here you stand. Did you think you could flee so easily? That there wouldn’t be a reckoning?” He moved towards her, slow and relentless. “You know better, Isabel. You knowmebetter.”
“Is this where you take me by force? Send your men after me like you did five months ago?”
“No. I’ve sacrificed enough loyal soldiers on the altar of your spite. You’ll return to me of your own free will. Kneel at my feet and beg for the privilege.”
Isabel swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. “The only one of us who will kneel is you. You don’t own me, you arrogant prick.”
“Don’t I? Have you forgotten so quickly,mon cœur?” He lifted a hand and trailed his fingers down her cheek. She just managed not to flinch. “The things I taught you? The way I made yousing? No matter how far you run or how desperately you try to carve me out, my marks are all over you. You’re mine.”
No. No, no, no.
Nausea churned in her belly. She wanted to cringe from that touch, from the scouring memory of a hundred other touches. His hands on her, that low, rumbling laughter as she lay still beneath him, the knife gliding over her skin—
“Is that why Harrington had to die? Because he touched what you consider yours?”
A muscle jumped in Favreau’s jaw. “Harrington knew too much about the particulars of Ramsgate’s project. Disposing of him was good business.” His gaze flicked back to her face. “The fact that he dared lay a finger on my most prized possession expedited matters.”
Then his hand lashed out, catching her wrist.
Her dagger clattered to the cobblestones. His palm cracked across her cheek, snapping her head to the side. Pain bloomed, sharp and bright.
“I indulge you.” Favreau’s voice caressed her ear, a dark croon. “Your rebellions, your flights of childish pique. The delusions of freedom. But my patience has limits, Isabel.”
She spat in his face.
He dashed away the gob of saliva, his mouth pursed in distaste. “So wilful,mon cœur. Why do you make me hurt you?”
In a blink, Favreau slammed her to the ground. He was on her in an instant, knees bracketing her hips, palm splayed between her breasts. Keeping her pinned. He tugged at her bodice andyanked. Tearing fabric, baring skin.
Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a small knife. Isabel knew that blade. Knew the edge of it, the cruel bite. It had mapped her in searing strokes a hundred times before.
And now it pressed into the hollow of her throat.
“A more permanent reminder is in order,” Favreau mused. “A declaration of ownership.” He trailed the blade along her neck. “I should carve my initials here, I think.” A considering tap between her breasts. “So the next time that filthy Irish dog touches what’s mine, he’s reminded who you belong to.”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. “Don’t. Favreau,don’t.”
He went still. She could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“It pains me to repeat myself, but you know the rules. Only two phrases should fall from your lips in moments such as this. ‘Yes’ and ‘please’, Isabel.”
Then he started cutting.
A choked sound escaped her throat. Favreau tightened his grip, bruising fingerprints into her arms. Holding her still. She remembered this ritual all too well, knew what struggling would do. So she lay very, very still.
And she let him carve.
Callahan’s voice rose from her memories, calming.We endure in the only ways we can, Trouble. We adapt and overcome because the alternative is to let the world grind us to dust.
She wasn’t in her body. It was all right because she was outside of it. There were only ocean waves. Isabel had long since memorised the cadence of different seas, the way the waves struck a particular rhythm unique to each place. Each wave was a breath. A reminder.
Alive alive alive.
