The Girl in the Steel Corset - By Kady Cross Page 0,18
reflecting glints of russet in his hair. “I’d like to meet whomever it was who made you so distrusting and pull his teeth out one by one.”
The vehemence in his tone startled her, yet was strangely warming. “’Twas more than just one.”
His face darkened, like clouds overtaking the sun. Suddenly, this was no longer just some seemingly kind, bored aristocrat standing before her, but a young man capable of many dangerous things.
Interesting, she thought, borrowing his own term.
“What I want from you,” he said, and Finley braced herself, “is your trust. Irrevocable and unshakable. I want you to put your life in my hands, and I want to be able to do the same without hesitation.”
Disturbed to her very soul, Finley could only shake her head. “You ask too much.” Put his life in her hands? He was deranged! A bedlamite for certain.
A crooked grin curved his mouth. “Too much? You strange and wonderful girl, that is the least I’ll ask of you.”
Anyone who got within fifteen feet of Sam Morgan could tell the young man was spoiling for a fight. Unfortunately for Sam, everyone in the tavern was either sober enough to give him a wide berth or too drunk to bother indulging him.
He sat at a table in a corner as dark as his mood and as far away from the automated barkeep as he could get. Just the sight of the gleaming brass android caused his left eye to twitch. Thankfully, a human—a young girl—came to his table. She wore a white blouse off her round shoulders, a tight corset that made her waist incredibly tiny and called even more attention to her abundant chest and a short, flouncy skirt that showed off shapely calves in dark stockings.
“Right,” she said, rolling the r in a thick Welsh accent. “What can I gets ye, then?”
“A pint,” he replied brusquely, pushing a half-crown across the scarred tabletop. It was a generous payment. She snatched it up with a grin and hurried off to fetch his drink. Across the gin-and ale-soaked, sawdust-littered floor, a shabbily dressed man dropped a coin into the slot of the automated “Victoria Victrola.” There was a slight clinking sound as the coin hit bottom, followed by a gentle whirring as the torso in the top glass half of the machine stirred. “Victoria” had thick auburn hair and a lovely papier-mâché face with bright blue eyes and painted crimson lips, the bottom of which was designed to open and close, as though she was actually flesh and blood singing a song and not a cheap wind-up doll designed to mime in time to the music. Victoria didn’t bother Sam as much as the shiny creature behind the bar. She was confined to her glass prison, half a woman with no chance of escape.
No, it was the metal behind the bar that set his teeth on edge. Did these people not realize the danger they put themselves in simply being in the same room as that…that thing?
At least he was better equipped to fight them now. Emily had seen to that. He flexed the fingers on his right hand. It felt completely normal. How was that possible when it wasn’t? He couldn’t even discern a difference in weight between his arms, but surely the metal one had to be weightier?
The waitress returned to set a frothy pint of ale in front of him. Some of the foam ran down the outside the mug to pool on the dirty tabletop. “Wanting anythin’ else, will ye be?”
Sam wasn’t dumb. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as Emily and Griff, or even as witty as Jasper, but he wasn’t stupid. He understood things they didn’t, and he understood what the girl offered him. He also knew that no one liked being rejected.
“Not right now,” he replied with a slight smile. It felt forced and false on his lips, but she didn’t notice. She returned the smile, flashing a pretty dimple in her cheek.
“If you change yer mind, let me know.”
“I will,” he promised, knowing full well he wouldn’t.
As she swished away, Sam lifted the mug. Warm ale flooded his mouth, awakening his tongue with its rich flavor. He could swallow three gallons of the stuff and still not be drunk enough to get Emily’s soft brogue out of his head.
“I replaced your heart.”
What did that mean? It wasn’t being kept alive that gnawed at him, or that a machine pushed the blood through his veins. How did this affect him as