Page 93 of You Only Love Twice
Gemma's ears were ringing as she lifted herself up. "I think so."
Malloryn pressed a hand to Miss Hamilton's forehead. "She feels like ice. Where's the Chameleon?" he barked, stripping out of his coat.
"I don't know. I shot him, but I had to save Miss Hamilton."
And was that really the Chameleon?
Obsidian had told her it wasn't, and thedhampir'smocking voice and sarcastic tone sounded nothing like those of a cold-blooded killer.
She needed to return to the catacombs and question a certain enemy agent before any of the others stumbled upon him.
Malloryn's lips thinned, but he nodded. "You made the right choice."
Easing his coat around his fiancée's shoulders, Malloryn hauled her dead weight up into his arms. Golden ringlets tumbled over his sleeve, and Miss Hamilton moaned.
Malloryn looked down at her with a strange look on his face. "Well. The odds certainly weren't in my favor today. Tell me... was anyone betting an assassin would kidnap the bride before she could sayI do, or does no one win the kitty?"
"Malloryn."
The smile he gave her had a knife-edge to it. "Thank you, Gemma. You saved her life. Take the night off. You look like you need a good sleep. Tomorrow, we renew the hunt." His smile vanished as he glanced up at the memorial in front of him, and the elegant scrolled writing embossed across it.Catherine Tate. For a second, his expression froze, and then he looked down again, balancing his fiancée in his arms.
"I want the Chameleon's head," he said in a lethal voice, "and I will have it."
Chapter 20
The bride was home safely, disaster averted, and the Company of Rogues dispersed for the night, grateful for having survived the day in one piece. There'd been no sign of Obsidian in the catacombs, and Gemma wasn't certain whether she was relieved or not.
He wasn't going to appreciate being hemlocked.
And she had quite the bone to pick with him in regards to Miss Hamilton.
Gemma retreated to her bedchambers, peeling off her long leather gloves as she entered the room.
Tossing the gloves aside, she felt the cool breeze on her skin, and—
The window was open, the curtains blowing in a way reminiscent of Miss Hamilton's bedchambers. Fatigue sloughed off her in an instant and Gemma slipped her hand through her slit skirts and drew one of the sai sheathed against her thigh as she pressed her back to the wall, dropping her handful of pins on the carpet. The room was empty; nothing moved.
But her heart raced in the stillness of the night.
Someone had been in here.
And then her eye locked on the single sheet of folded paper on the bed. Only one person could have gotten into her rooms undetected, despite the risks.
All the tension eased out of her, replaced by something that burned a little hotter, a little tighter, and she gritted her teeth as she stalked toward the letter.Damn him.
Saint Petersburg haunted her. Stolen moments in the midst of chaos; secret rendezvous where they could pretend they were alone in the world without an entire spy war between them. They'd traded notes then, using a plethora of servants and tactics such as breaking into each other’s rooms, just like this.
Stealing away at a ball to kiss him in a shadowed alcove. A day at the Hermitage Museum, where Gemma marveled at the art and pretended she was merely a young woman strolling with her beau. An afternoon tucked away in a carriage, exploring the canals and streets. Sipping svekolnik, a cold borscht soup. Laughing as they lay naked under a blanket, before a blazing fire. All they'd ever truly had were moments.
Gemma flicked the note open. If he thought to sway her with nostalgic memories, then he was sorely mistaken, especially after the day's events.
We need to talk. Come and find me. If you can....
"Son of a bitch," she growled, screwing the piece of paper into a crumpled mess and heading for the window.
Talk? Ha. They certainly did have much to discuss.
* * *
