Page 48 of To Catch A Rogue
When he'd first arrived at the Warren, he'd been so stricken with the transition of the craving virus, he could barely think straight, let alone see her as more than a friend.
After months of torment—yearning for blood, craving it, hearing his sister's heartbeats in the room next door and knowing if he gave in for just a second, just a moment, he could slake this wretched thirst—there hadn't been enough left of him to even acknowledge his surroundings, let alone enjoy them.
And then one night, he'd woken to find Lark in his room, peering down at him curiously.
"Who are you?" he'd asked.
"The bane of your existence," she told him, with all the arrogance she could muster.
From that moment on, they'd been thick as thieves.
Friends, partners in crime, allied in their determination to drive Blade halfway to Bedlam, as he put it. After everything Charlie had endured, he found with her a purity within himself he'd thought was lost. Others might be frightened of him, but Lark would merely roll her eyes and threaten to punch him if he ever tried to drink her blood.
It wasn't until he grew older and girls began to catch his eye that things changed between them.
"Admit it," he teased, exhilaration still running rampant through him. "You had fun tonight. With me."
"I'm not admitting anything." Lark looked down in dismay as coal and dust fell off her clothes. "Poor Herbert's going to have a seizure when he sees this mess."
Every time he hinted there was something more between them, she moved the conversation in another direction. It was almost as if she forgot herself for a moment. Her smile would soften, she'd lean into him, and then....
All of a sudden she remembered she was supposed to be this new, rational, unamused Lark. A woman who seemed somehow untouchable, until she forgot again.
He could be patient.
It was the first thing Blade taught him when Charlie started cracking houses. An impatient thief was a dead thief.
Or he could challenge her directly. See if he could slip through some of that armor she kept firmly in place these days.
"What now?" Lark groused, peering up at him over her dirty cheeks.
He reached out and batted at the smudge on her nose. "Well, I don't know about you, but I've got soot in places I didn't think I'd ever have soot. I'll rouse one of the servants and get them to send a message to the others so they don't worry. And then... I thought I'd avail myself of the heated pools in the west wing."
Lark's breath caught. "There are heated pools in the house?"
Got you now.
She'd evidently spent so many years covered in mud and dirt as a child that she'd had her fill forever. Ever since she began to blossom into a woman, she'd been an avid devotee of bathing.
"Roman-style baths." Charlie leaned down so they were almost face-to-face, his voice lowering. "I'll wash your back if you wash mine."
For a second he tensed, certain she was going to punch him in the arm.
Instead, she gave him a slow, heated glance from beneath her lashes. "You don't think I'll do it, do you?"
There she was. The Lark he remembered. Inch by inch, she was beginning to relax around him. "It's different now we're both adults. I understand if you're shy these days. It's not as though I'd look, but you're a woman now. There are certain expectations. No splashing. No swimming together. Definitely no taking one's clothes off."
"I know what you're doing." There was almost a hint of growl to her voice. "You're incredibly transparent."
He grinned.
"Fine." She turned, shooting him a direct look over one shoulder. "I'm going to find your heated pools. You may join me if you wish, though you're not washing my back."
He laughed.
"I'll wash yours, however."
The laughter choked off.
