King Among the Dead - Lauren Gilley Page 0,62
his mistress. When she found the bodies, she’d call 911, but the only evidence to find would point to her.
Silently, Beck stood, and she followed.
The rain picked up on their walk back to the house; it beaded on the edge of her hood and dripped down inside, cold against the back of her neck. It felt good, though, her skin overheated and too tight, her pulse throbbing in her temples, making her head ache. She breathed the humid air in through her mouth, drinking it down, with all its foul city smells, feeling so keenly, wildly alive.
They went across the courtyard, and in through the back door, which he locked behind them. Raindrops dripped from their jackets, quiet patters against the tile, as they stood in the dim kitchen, just breathing.
Beck pushed back his hood, and his face was all of tension: jaw clenched, brows lowered, nostrils flared. His damp hair clung to his neck, where it had come loose of its knot, and save for its softness, he looked carved from marble. He stripped off his wet coat, and hung it by the door; knelt down to unlace his boots and tugged them off.
Rose watched him a moment, drifting, dreamy and relaxed like she’d just gotten out of a bath. Then, belatedly, took off her own coat and boots.
He sent her a look – low-lidded, full of things unsaid – that clearly told her to follow, and headed down the hall.
He built up a fire in the library fireplace, and stayed crouched in front of it a moment once it was snapping merrily, warming his hands. Orange light bathed the slender elegance of his fingers, clean tonight because he’d worn gloves, but she could imagine the smears and stains, the evidence of the violence he’d wrought. He could wear gloves, and soak in the tub, and scrub his hands until the skin was raw, but the things he’d done would forever be etched beneath his surface, sense memories like echoes, bells tolling through him and then through her when he touched her, even innocently, as he always did.
She tried to gauge his mood, but his profile revealed only gilded sharpness – and the sense that he was holding himself on a very tight leash. She wondered what it would take to make it snap.
When he stood, he went to the sideboard and poured two whiskeys. Rose settled into her chair, feet hooked over the arm and pointed toward the fire, and accepted her glass with a quiet thanks.
He got situated in his own chair, and lit a cigarette from the pack on the table. Stared into the fire when he said, “You didn’t ask me who they were.”
“I figured you would have told me if you’d wanted me to know.”
His brows lifted, and she thought he started to face her – but didn’t. “You didn’t know if they deserved it. What if they were innocent? What if they took in orphans and walked old ladies across the street?”
“What if they did?” she countered.
His head did turn, then, fractionally. He looked up at her through his lashes, chin tucked at an angle that lent his face a hollow, hungry look. “Would you have regretted it?” He took another long drag, smoke curling through the wisps of his drying hair.
She hadn’t taken one sip of whiskey, but felt like she’d had a whole glass, loose, and warm, and relaxed. Unafraid of her own honesty. “I don’t regret anything when it comes to you.”
Beck, by contrast, vibrated with barely-suppressed tension. His fingers tapped on his glass; shook where they held the cigarette. He didn’t blink for a moment, holding her gaze. Debating, she thought. Arguing with himself.
He took the last drag and flicked the butt into the fire. “He’s a banker. Was. His wife is the second-cousin of one of Castor’s generals, and when he found that out, he used the connection to force his way up from janitor to CFO. Dumb as a rock. A cheater – obviously.” He took up the cigarette packet and tapped it absently against the table. “He’s been squeezing other banks out of business. Stealing regular people’s money to fuel his heavensent habit.”
She nodded. “And now he’s dead and can’t do that anymore.”
“There’ll be another. There always is.” His hand tightened, packet crumpling, and he bared his teeth in a rare grimace.
“But he’s gone,” she said, patiently. “And that feels good, doesn’t it?”
“God, yes.” A breathless admission.
He dropped the cigarettes, drained his glass, and gripped the