Page 43 of Her Beast

The maid checked her pulse, laid a hand on her forehead, and then settled the blankets around her before leaving the room.

So, the girl was fine.

Malcolm worried his lower lip as he stared through the mirror. Should he simply get on with his day or keep waiting?

It’s not like you to dither, Mal,Sukey chided.

Oh, now you’re back.

You’ve kidnapped an innocent young woman.

I’m not going to hurt her.

You’re spying on her.

How is that hurting her?

As usual, Sukey disappeared after she’d had her say.

“It’s not really Sukey.” Malcolm said aloud, which made him feel like an even bigger idiot.

He stared through the glass, an uneasy feeling building in his belly.

Close it, his conscience ordered.

You’re doing nothing wrong, just looking. It’s not like you’re fucking her…a base, greedy voice whispered.

Usually when Malcolm’s conscience and cock argued his cock was the clear winner.

But not today.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and then yanked the drapes closed, pulling so hard he was surprised he didn’t jerk them off the wall.

Malcolm slammed his bedroom door and stalked toward his study. He was furious with himself for this missish lapse into—what? Morality? Guilt?

Since when had spying on a woman—or anyone—bothered him? Watching others was one of the few joys left in his life; he deserved some small measure of enjoyment from it, didn’t he?

Malcolm scowled at the peevish, whiney tone of his thoughts; he sounded like a spoiled child.

Quit lying to yourself. You know exactly why you feel like a lascivious shit.

He sighed. Yes, he did. The girl wasn’t one of his whores, she was just an innocent bystander who’d been caught up in the net of his revenge. Malcolm was using her, just like he’d use any other tool at his disposal.

He was despicable.

He dropped into his desk chair and stared at yet another transparent mirror—the one that looked onto the room where he’d watched Smith and the others perform for him last night.

Lord. Was that only last night? It felt like a hundred years ago.

Smith had warned him about going down this road and Malcolm was speedily realizing his friend was right. There was a cost for revenge and he was already feeling fatigued by the energy such hatred required to fuel it.

He drummed his fingers on his desk; he should just kill Harlow right now and forget about toying with the bastard—no matter how much he’d earned the right to inflict some suffering.

But he couldn’t do that until he’d spoken to Sheehan. And if he spoke to Sheehan in his current state of mind, he’d kill him.

Malcolm’s fists curled at the almost irresistible thought, and he began to sweat. Yes, why not kill him? He could go over thererightnow and—

Patience. Have patience and stay with your plan.

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