Shelby Mahurin

Un malheur ne vient jamais seul.

Misfortune never arrives alone.

—French proverb

When he didn’t answer, her smile grew small and cruel. Triumphant. “The witches are vicious. If they learn you possess the ring, their wrath on your remaining family will be . . . unpleasant.”

“I make it my business to know the business of my enemies, monsieur.” She rose gracefully to her feet, and he stumbled back a half step. “As they are now also your enemies, I must offer a piece of advice: ’tis dangerous to meddle in the affairs of witches. Forget your vengeance. Forget everything you’ve learned about this world of shadows and magic. You are wildly outmatched and woefully inadequate in the face of these women. Death is the kindest of their torments—a gift bestowed only to those who have earned it.

I didn’t allow my eyes to follow her fingers up her arm. Because her arm would lead to her shoulder, and her shoulder would lead
to her face. And I knew what I’d find there. Two bruised eyes, and a fresh welt forming on her cheek. A scar above her eyebrow. Another across her throat. It still peeked below the black ribbon, despite her attempt to hide it.

After a few minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I cleared my throat. “Did one of them give you those bruises?”

“Who?”

“Your enemies.”

“Oh,” she said brightly. “Yes. Well—two, actually.”

Two? I stared at her, incredulous. Tried to imagine the tiny creature before me battling two people at once—then remembered her trapping me backstage, tricking the audience into believing I’d assaulted her. I scowled. She was more than capable.

There had to be another way—any other way—

Small, warm fingers squeezed my own. My eyes darted up and met piercing blue-green. No—more blue than green now. Steely. Reflecting the iron water of the Doleur behind her. She swallowed and nodded almost imperceptibly.

In that brief movement, I understood. The doubt, the hesitation, the mourning of a future I’d never have—it belonged to her as well. Gone was the spitting hellcat. Now, there was only a woman. And she was small. And she was frightened. And she was strong.

And she was asking me to be the same.

I didn’t know why I did it. She was a thief, a criminal, and I owed her nothing. She’d ruined my life when she dragged me on that stage. If I agreed, I was certain she’d do her best to continue doing so.

But I returned the pressure anyway. Felt the two small words rise to my lips, unbidden. “I will.”

I waved a careless hand and smirked. “Hazard of the job.”

“Not anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes blazed. “You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.”

Tension—taut and heavy—settled between us at his words.

I tilted my head and stalked toward him, a slow smile spreading across my face. He glared at me, but his breathing hitched when I leaned over him. His eyes flicked to my mouth. Even sitting, he was nearly taller than me.

“Good.” I curled my hand around one of the knives in his bandolier. Flicking it to his throat before he could react, I dug the tip in hard enough to draw blood. His hand came down on my wrist—crushing it—but he didn’t force me away. I leaned closer. Our lips were only a hair’s breadth apart. “But you should know,” I breathed, “that if a man touches me in any way without my permission, I’ll cut him open.” I paused for effect, dragging the knife from his throat to his navel and beyond. He swallowed hard. “Even if that man is my husband.”

I woke long before my wife. Stiff. Sore. Aching from a fitful night on the floor. Though I’d argued with myself—reasoned vehemently that she’d chosen to suffer in the tub—I hadn’t been able to climb into bed. Not when she was injured. Not when she might wake in the night and change her mind.

No. I’d offered her the bed. The bed was hers.

Jean Luc grinned. “I don’t think they were doing much sleeping.”

“She could cut our throats.”

“She consorts with witches.”

“It isn’t right.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“I heard she’s a whore.”

I bashed the handle of my sword into the last one’s head, and he sprawled to the ground. Extending my arms, I turned in a slow circle. Challenging anyone who dared confront me. Blood ran from a cut on my forehead. “Does anyone else have a problem with my new circumstance?”

“I went out to get a bun.”

Forsake wrath. I gripped the back of the chair. Too hard. The wood bit into my fingertips, and my knuckles turned white. “A bun?”

“Yes, a bun.” She shucked off her boots. They hit the floor with two dull thuds. “I overslept the matinee—probably because someone woke me up at the ass crack—”

“Watch your mouth—”

“—of dawn.” She stretched leisurely and fell back against the pillows.