Matthews licked his lips. “Regrettable, but if they were workers, then this was always a risk, wasn’t it? You scurry around in mills and among dangerous machinery and belowground, and accidents happen. It’s natural. Do you know what is not natural? A man of your breeding living like a prince. A man like me, whose family owns a four-hundred-year-old estate, being sent to fetch your flowers and lurid pamphlets.” He thrust the pistol forward. “But your kind shall not succeed. There are too many of us who won’t tolerate this disintegration of order, of every wretch pushing above their station. Our lines harden with every strike that sabotages a cotton mill, whenever there is a new labor union; yes, the more severely Parliament is beleaguered to enfranchise the have-nots, the women, the anarchists, the more firmly we stand …”
“Watch out,” cried Harriet behind Matthews’s back, and fell to the floor with a thud.
Matthews’s gaze slid sideways, toward the disturbance.
Lucian charged.
Screams and a feral snarl rent the air, and a shot rang out.
For a distorted second, the world was white light and the sound of someone breathing.
When all snapped into focus, Lucian found he was on the floor. Matthews was pinned under him, emitting a wheezing sound. The pistol lay empty and useless on the rug, the bullet lodged somewhere in the walls. Next to them, Harriet rolled onto her side, brushing her curls from her eyes. Her face was frozen. It was the loveliest, loveliest face he had ever known, and she was alive.
Alive.
His heart was pounding so hard, it would break through his ribs. “You all right, love?” he asked.
Her lips moved, but no word came out.
Beneath him, Matthews moaned.
The cold cage around Lucian’s mind splintered apart, smashed by a wrecking ball of wrath. Energy burst through him like a firebrand. In place of his body was a force.
He was on his feet, his hand a fist in Matthews’s collar, and he dragged the man across the floor like a sack of spuds as he strode toward his revolver.
“Lucian, no.”
Her cry in his ears, he scooped up the gun and cocked it.
“You bloody bastard,” Matthews said softly.
Lucian pulled him up onto his knees by his cravat and twisted his fist into the fabric. Matthews made a satisfying little choking sound, but he stopped scrabbling when Lucian pressed the revolver muzzle between his eyes. He did not move at all then. He did not even breathe.
Lucian stared into the frozen eyes. “You,” he said. “You made her bleed.” His voice was torn up, barely recognizable; it came from the rawest, darkest place of his soul. “You scared her. You could have killed her. For that, I should send you to hell.” He yanked Matthews forward as he leaned down. “I should send you to hell just so you can’t ever hurt her again. No one would find it regrettable.”
Matthews’s scent hit his nose. Pure fear. The type of fear Harriet must have felt when the gunmetal had pressed into her downy skin. When she had been alone with a man who wanted to harm her …
A tear slipped from the corner of Matthews’s eye. Lucian bit back a growl and shook the man. But the longer he held on, the quicker the primal ecstasy of surviving battle was cooling and fading, and the hot roar of fear simmered down, too. A hot glow lingered; then there was only ash.
A tremor ran through his body. He could have lost her today.
The world would have been empty.
But he hadn’t lost her; she was still there, a quiet shape in the corner of his eye.
He lowered the revolver and loosened his grip.
He took a breath, and another.
He couldn’t. He badly wanted to hurt the man, but he shouldn’t, either. It wasn’t his place. And while Rutland’s ruination was the only measure of justice his victims could expect to receive, it hadn’t brought him any joy. And it had nearly cost him his wife. His wife. This, here, was not what she’d want or need from him; this was what he needed. Perhaps he didn’t even need it himself. Perhaps he didn’t even want it. More rage, vengeance, and death—when would it stop? Rutland was gone; he could stop being that man. He could stop. He could try.
“Fuck,” he murmured.
He gave Matthews a shove.
Matthews fell back onto his bum, a disoriented expression on his face.
Lucian raked a hand through his hair, then he crouched, bringing their eyes level. “You’re unwell,” he said.
His former assistant blinked, slowly, like someone just returned to the living. “I know,” he finally said.
The door opened, and Lucian was upright, the revolver at the ready again.