his gaze to my scarred arm. “Fresh, too. Not even a few weeks old.”
My gaze flies from one man to the other.
There’s a familiarity between them that I don’t understand. A . . . a sort of kinship that makes itself all the more apparent when I grip my handbag, tight, and power down the hall, my pumps clipping ominously against concrete—only to be cut short by Hanover.
He grabs my wrist, turning my arm over.
Unease sweeps over me, and I yank, hard. “Take your hands off me.”
“A red poppy,” Hanover murmurs, as if tasting the word on his tongue and finding it offensive, “and these scars . . .” Tracing a finger over the blisters, he gives a low, skin-crawling laugh. Pensive dark eyes flick to mine. “Connelly, bring me that brooch, would you?”
No.
Oh, fuck, no.
Desperation floods my veins and I dart right, ducking under Hanover’s arm. But I get no farther than three steps when a forearm clamps down over my head and cinches tight across my throat. A startled cry bursts from my lips, and then Hanover drags me backward.
Feet flailing. Nails scratching.
“Let me go!”
Shadows dance in my peripheral as I’m shoved hard against a door. The metallic tang of blood bursts on my tongue. Turning my head, I angle my chin upward to draw air into my lungs, but the movement inadvertently gives Hanover better access to what he so desperately wants. And he takes it, the bastard. He squeezes my throat until I’m scratching at the door and struggling to hold onto the fragile threads of life.
“Why—” Vision swimming, I claw at his arm fruitlessly. “Why . . . are you doing this?”
“Nothing happens in London without me knowing it, Little Rowan. I have ears everywhere, friends in all places. And you”—that dark, caustic laugh comes again, this time directly in my ear—"everyone knows that there’s no love lost between you and your old man. Just like we both know that he didn’t send you here. So, the question is . . . who did? Was it the queen?”
“Maybe it was me,” I choke out, refusing to give him Damien’s name. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe you owe your freedom to me. And here you are, trying to kill me for—”
His arm flexes and the air slips away, a ghost that never was.
Firm fingers grasp my chin and force my head down, just as the mangled brooch is shoved centimeters away from my face. The guard, Connelly, growls, “Mary should’ve looked before she let this one through. It’s a camera.”
“Check the back.”
The silver piece is turned over and held toward the light. “Marked with the number 503.”
“Of course it is. Fucking Holyrood.”
I’m wrenched away from the door, Hanover’s hand fisting the back of my shirt as he hauls me down the corridor. I trip over my pumps, one of them clattering to the floor and disappearing behind me. I want to scream. I want to cry for help. But all I manage is: “I’ll kill you. Do you hear me, Hanover? I’ll kill you.”
“You won’t be the first to try.”
“Which room should we put her?” Connelly asks. “With the others?”
“No,” Hanover says.
“Really.” The guard whistles. “Solitary, then?”
“No,” I breathe, throwing all my weight in the opposite direction to slow our pace. But Hanover treats me like I’m nothing more than a disobedient dog. He uses my shirt like a lead, bunching the material at my throat, and forcibly drags me behind him. “You can’t do this.” Desperation turns me wild, frantic. “Do you hear me, Hanover? You can’t do this. My father—”
“Has wanted you dead for years.” When my head snaps up, Hanover spares me a cruel grin over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. Deep down, you’ve always known it was true.”
“You’re lying.” The collar of my shirt nips tighter, and I pull on the material desperately. Fading consciousness blurs the world gray at the edges. Pushing feebly at Hanover’s wrists, I hiss, “He had nothing to gain with me dying in the fire.”
“Only a million pounds.”
“At thirteen? I didn’t even have five quid to my name!”
“Inheritance is a tricky thing, though, isn’t it? Particularly when it belongs to a wife and her children.” That cruel face barely flinches when he adds, “You didn’t go down nearly as easily as she did.”
Mum screaming.
A bedroom door bolted shut.
And my father, down in the garden beside Silas Hanover, peering up at my window while I begged him to save me.
“He’ll thank me, honestly,” Hanover