Heartless Hunter (Crimson Moth, #1) (9)
She turned her back on Alex and was about to walk away when his strained voice said, “I’m sick of watching you walk into danger.”
She paused, sighing as she stared out into the empty foyer. “Then don’t watch.”
Rune didn’t wait for him to respond. She stepped out of the alcove—
And straight into a Blood Guard uniform.
FIVE
RUNE
HER FOREHEAD COLLIDED HARD with a chest as solid as concrete. The force of the soldier’s stride would have barreled her over had he not grabbed her elbow, steadying them both.
“Forgive me …”
Rune looked up. Straight into eyes as black and cold as a bottomless sea.
Gideon Sharpe.
His penetrating gaze seemed to cut her open, peeling back the layers of the girl she pretended to be. Like a knife carving off the protective skin of an apple to get at the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath.
Rune’s stomach tumbled over itself. She yanked her elbow out of his grip and staggered back, her heart beating fast. The Blood Guard captain before her—responsible for sending more witches to their executions than any other soldier—straightened, his features shifting from startled surprise to something dark and unreadable.
Rune cursed herself. The Crimson Moth might have reason to cower from this monster. But Rune Winters—the silly, shallow heiress she pretended to be—wouldn’t think twice about it.
Before she could find her courage, Gideon’s gaze ran sharply down her. The force of his attention was like a rifle aimed at her heart. It made her pulse race and her breath stick in her throat. Rune was a deer, and he was a hunter. Taking her measure, noting every detail and flaw, trying to decide if she would be worth the hunt.
A second later, he frowned and looked away.
Evidently, she wasn’t.
“Citizen Winters. My apologies, I—”
Gideon’s incisive gaze flicked over her shoulder, drawn to the sudden movement of his younger brother emerging from the alcove. At the sight of Alex, his rigid form relaxed.
Gideon stepped around Rune as if she were not only disappointing but entirely forgettable. “Alex. What’s the matter? You look perturbed.”
“What? Oh.” Alex shook his head. “Nothing at all. Must be the terrible lighting.” He motioned to the gaslights glowing on the walls.
Gideon cocked his head, unconvinced.
Alex quickly changed the subject. “When did you get back?”
“This evening.”
The two brothers were inverse mirrors of each other. They had the same tall frames and handsome features: firm jaws, prominent brows. But where Alex was golden and warm as a summer day, Gideon was closed and dark as a locked, windowless room.
The two brothers were also the sons of the Sharpe Duet—a pair of lovers who started as humble tailors during the Reign of Witches. When their work caught the eye of the Sister Queens, Alex and Gideon’s parents were recruited by the Roseblood family to become the royal dressmakers, launching them to short-lived fame. Both died that same year, right before the revolution.
Anyone in fashionable circles still fell reverently quiet whenever someone spoke the dressmakers’ names.
“And?” Alex was saying, his voice a little strained. “Was your hunt successful?”
Gideon sighed and ran a hand roughly through his damp hair. “Despite an unfortunate incident, yes. We have the witch in custody.”
He’s speaking of Seraphine.
Rune felt her mask slip further as she remembered the torn clothes discarded in the mud. Had he and the others laughed as they stripped the garments off of the woman’s back? She thought of the red X smeared across Seraphine’s door, knowing whose blood he spilled to mark it.
Like a deer shaking off the paralyzing fear of its hunter, Rune reached for her voice, ironing out the hatred before speaking.
“What kind of unfortunate incident?”
Gideon glanced over, as if surprised she was still standing there.
He paused, reconsidering her.
This time, Rune studied him back, letting her gaze roam over him. The fit of his red uniform hinted at a hard, efficient form beneath. No softness. No warmth. Just unyielding muscle and strength, like an impenetrable fortress.
He had a strong, cruel mouth, and his black hair was still wet from the rain, or possibly a shower. And though he must have run himself as ragged as she had hunting down Seraphine, he stood before her polished and clean, from the pistol at his hip to the brass buckles on his boots, making Rune wonder if he had scrubbed off the blood with the same precision as his parents once sewed their elaborate garments for the queens.
The only disorderly thing about him were the knuckles on his right hand. They were red and raw, as if from pummeling something.
Or someone.
Rune’s blood burned beneath her skin. Afraid he would see the fury in her eyes, she peered up through her eyelashes, knowing the effect it had on other young men.
“I dearly hope you weren’t harmed in this … incident?”
He seemed about to answer her when the sudden, final chime of the intermission bells cut him off.
All three of them looked to find the grand foyer transformed around them. Without the socializing crowds, its emptiness loomed large. The chandeliers overhead suddenly seemed too big and too bright, and the painted ceiling more glorious than their insignificant selves deserved.