No fear. No pain. Less strategy—and more risk.
He ran straight at Rohan, his head down. Get inside his reach. Just before they collided, Jameson threw his right elbow up, catching the Factotum under his chin. Rohan weathered the blow and countered, but Jameson barely felt it, because the elbow to the chin had never been the point.
The point was his other arm, snaking around Rohan’s neck from behind.
Rohan was down. To the crowd it might have looked like he was out, but Jameson knew better. He saw the tension in the back of the Factotum’s hands, the ripple moving up his arms. Any second, Rohan was going to push back up.
But he didn’t.
It wasn’t until Jameson looked out at the crowd and saw the Proprietor holding his employee’s gaze that Jameson realized. He’s giving an order.
Rohan stayed down.
Jameson dragged himself from the ring, barely standing. Avery was there in an instant, propping him up on one side, and another figure slid in on the other.
Zella. “If you bleed on this gown,” the duchess warned, “I’m dropping you.”
“Bloodstains,” Jameson slurred with a grin that set his face on fire. “The point at which outsiders no longer stick together.”
On his other side, Avery’s body pushed in closer to his. “I told your brothers you were fine,” she muttered. “I promised Grayson you weren’t spiraling. And Nash? He’s going to kill you—and me.”
“Libby won’t let him. Killing bad. Cupcakes good.” Jameson ignored the pain and turned, looking for the Proprietor through the crowd—but the man was gone. And when Jameson swung his screaming head back toward the ring, so was Rohan.
CHAPTER 42
JAMESON
It’s an unwritten rule. If anyone goes twenty rounds with a house fighter, the house yields.”
For someone who couldn’t have been a member of the Devil’s Mercy for long, Zella knew an awful lot about its unwritten rules. She’d escorted him and Avery into the atrium, then past a set of velour curtains—Lust—and up a winding, golden staircase. Now the three of them were in a room like Jameson had never seen. The bed was larger than king-sized. The ceiling was a deep midnight blue, just reflective enough that Jameson, lying prone on the bed, could catch the occasional glimpse of a ghost of their images. The floor on which Zella and Avery stood was made of round, smooth stones that had been warm under his still-bare feet.
The wall that Jameson could see when he propped himself up was seemingly made of water, falling into a basin below like a waterfall tamed.
The sheets beneath his body—the sheets he was bleeding on—were made of the softest silk.
“What are you doing?” Avery demanded, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him gently back down onto the bed. “You need to lay still.”
“I need to do more.” That word. It always came back to that word—needing more, wanting more, wanting to be more. “The Proprietor will choose the players in the Game tonight. I can’t spend the rest of it up here.”
“I’m not asking you to, Jameson.” Avery brought her hand to his abdomen, just under his rib cage—his bruised and battered rib cage. “I am asking you,” she continued fiercely, “to remember that this matters.” His pain. His body. “You matter.”
Once upon a time, he would have had a flippant response for that, would have deployed it like a grenade. But not now. Not with her. “I went to see Ian last night.” The admission came out more pained than he would have liked—or maybe that was his jaw. “Don’t look at me like that, Heiress. I know what I’m doing.”
He knew—now and always—what it took to win.
“At least let us clean you up,” Zella said, her voice no-nonsense. “Believe me, the Proprietor won’t thank you for leaving a bloody trail across the Mercy.”
Jameson let them tend to him, his body throbbing, his mind pulsing, his thoughts singular. What’s next? He’d won on the tables. He’d won in the ring. That left two areas—besides this one—in the Devil’s Mercy.
And each of those two rooms held a book.
Those books hold more.… unconventional wagers. Any wager written into one of those books and signed for is binding, no matter how bizarre. Jameson meditated on that bit of information as antiseptic and bandages were applied to his cuts, as his ribs were wrapped. As he pulled his shirt and jacket back on, his body screaming its objections now that the adrenaline of the fight was starting to ebb away.