Page 157 of To Catch A Rogue
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"My prince,"Luther called, hauling Lark through the assorted nobles swarming around the dais at Balfour's palace. "I have a gift for you."
The crowd parted and Lark squirmed against her bonds, biting into the silk gag he'd bound around her face, as Luther shoved her in front of her worst nightmare.
Sergey resided on Balfour's chair, which was set right in the middle of the dais. A half dozen Imperial Ravens stood between him and the crowd, standing impassively. Light gleamed off their metal enhancements. Whereas England had shunned its mechs as barely human, the Empire embraced them as cold-blooded killers.
Sergey barely glanced up from a paper his attendant had been holding, waving a negligent hand. "Can you not see I am busy? Vladimir Feodorevna has been found a traitor to the court, and someone must bring this mess to an end. The tsarina is furious. Be off with you."
"Perhaps this will change your mind?"
Luther drew a knife, and her leather over corset suddenly gaped as he slashed at the cords binding it together. Grabbing the back of her shirt, he tore it right up the center and sent her sprawling.
A gasp went up behind her as Lark's fists slapped on the marble floor. She didn't dare move. The world faded around her as she looked up, and all she could see was the man who'd murdered her family, sitting up straight as he saw the tattoo on her back.
"Saints' blood," someone whispered.
"She wears themarque du sang," said another.
This had always been her most common nightmare.
Lark reached up with her bound hands to tear the gag from between her teeth. Hungry eyes watched her, and a chill ran through her as she raked the crowd for any sign of a familiar face.
There was none.
Gemma and the other Rogues had to be here somewhere, but would they even know she was in the palace?
How the hell was she going to get out of this one?
Charlie would come for her. She knew he would.
And yet, with that thought came another chill, for she never wanted the man she loved to have to face the Prince of Tsaritsyn.
"Well." A gleam lit Sergey's eyes. "This day brings many an unusual gift. First, the downfall of an old foe. Now this." He pushed to his feet, towering over her. "A young woman bearing themarqueof the Grigoriev family. Who are you?"
Lark pushed to her feet, cool air caressing her back through the slit of her shirt. Every inch of her remained tense, but she'd be damned if she'd tremble before him.
"My name is Irina Konstantinovna Grigoriev. You killed my family."
And I want you to die.
More gasps.
Even Sergey looked surprised, as though he'd expected her to be an imposter or beg him for mercy. "Irina?" he breathed. "Unfortunately your words betray your lie. Irina's family died in the fires that swept the palace—"
"No. They did not. The first to die was Yekaterina." Lark curled her hands into fists. Fear bled into anger as the darkness within her awoke. All these years. Always looking over her shoulder. Well, she was done now. She had never wanted to face him, not like this, but if she had to.... Then she would not cower. "She begged my mother to save her, but mother could not. She was being held down by two of theChernyye Volkiwho ruled under your hand."
Sergey's cold gaze locked on hers and she saw the recognition there as he remembered it too.
His faint smile died.
Not an imposter. She saw it in his eyes.
And saw too, that he didn't particularly wish for the truth to come out.
"The second to die was Evgeni. The man who killed him wore a wolf mask. Perhaps he couldn't look my brother in the eyes as he slit his throat. He was barely off his short strings, after all. A baby. An innocent baby. My mother was screaming by then, begging his killer for mercy.
"And then it was my mother's turn." She spun, finding Luther standing there gaping at her, the knife still in his hands. Lark used it to slash the ropes that bound her wrists together. He jerked away, but she wasn't done yet. Grabbing his wrist, she twisted and took the knife from him in a move Blade had spent years teaching her.
