Page 3 of To Catch A Rogue
He didn't want her here.
He didn't want any of them here.
Even if, for one selfish second, his lungs seized with dread and he came close to praying.
Better for all of them if he died.
But one look at Jelena's smile and he knew he wasn't going to be allowed that mercy.
"You're all alone," she whispered, the knife skating across the planes of his lower abdomen. "All mine to play with. And I will break you."
Jelena stabbed forward, and the knife parted muscle and flesh with a blinding flash of heat. Malloryn's vision went blank, and he hissed again. Clenching around the blade, he fought to hold on to consciousness.
"Jelena," a familiar voice chided. "That is no way to treat our guest."
Every inch of Malloryn went cold.
Heels and a cane clicked slowly on the floors as the pair ofdhampirparted. Malloryn blinked as the lights half-blinded him. All he could see were the tips of the stranger's shoes in the rim of light that surrounded him; a rich brown leather that was polished to a sheen. The rest of the man was pure shadow as someone hauled the light's glare vertical in order to blind him.
A pause.
"Ah, look at you, Malloryn. You haven’t aged a day."
"I’m ashamed to admit I cannot quite say the same," Malloryn rasped. "I thought I'd killed you."
The man laughed a little, under his breath. More of a throaty hum, really. "You came rather closer than I would have cared for." He leaned forward, his leather-gloved knuckles tightening on the hilt of his cane. "Ah," he said, light limning his pale hair and the outline of his face as he leaned closer. "Did you miss me, Malloryn? I missed you."
"No." The word passed his lips in pure denial as the stranger revealed a face he knew so intimately.
He'd placed that nightmare to rest years ago.
But here it was again, resurfaced.
"Balfour," he said, as Lord Balfour smiled.
"Hello, Malloryn. Nobody is coming to rescue you. Nobody would be that stupid. I believe this is called checkmate?"
Chapter 1
Stealing from the blue bloods of the Echelon always gave Lark Rathinger a sense of fulfillment.
But stealing from the Russian diplomat sent to negotiate an alliance between the aristocratic Echelon and the Crimson Court satisfied a deeper, darker part of herself she hadn't quite managed to subdue.
Vengeance.
Slipping out of the upper window of an elegant mansion in Belgravia, Lark cocked her head to listen to the strains of the waltz seeping from the ballroom below. There was no hue and cry; only laughter, smug refrains, the swish of fabric, and the clink of fine crystal.
Perfect.
But no point pushing her luck.
Reaching inside her elegant long-tailed coat, she withdrew the grappling hook from the inner pocket of her waistcoat and flung it into the gutter above.
Two seconds later, she was on the rooftop. Kicking off the oversized Hessians she'd stolen from one of the footmen, she tugged her thin rubber-soled boots on. The powdered wig went next, sailing like a scalped Pomeranian dog down the next chimney she passed. Lark was flying across the rooftop like a circus performer, at ease here in a way she often wasn't in the streets below.
Below her, the London residence of Count Mikhail Golorukov glittered with light and laughter. She wasn't worried about someone finding the safe in his study tampered with, its contents missing. No, Golorukov was more interested in his mistress.
But the guards in the garden were another matter.
