Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,5

great distance away.

Esme straightened, her fingers locking around the basket he offered her. “I’m fine,” she said tightly, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. “Let’s go.”

Something hot trailed down her cheek, but at least Will was gentleman enough to pretend not to notice it.

CHAPTER TWO

Rip shouldered through the back door into the enormous kitchen of the Warren. A blanket of heat hit him, blood stinging in his cheeks and his heart racing. All he could see was the shocked look on Esme’s face as she’d stood in the mouth of the alley, staring at him as if he’d just knifed her.

Hell. He hadn’t meant her to see that. He knew exactly what she’d be thinking. She’d made it quite clear over the last month or two that if he wished to begin taking thralls, then she and Blade thought it best he start with someone who was experienced with a blue blood’s volatile hungers. Her. Never mind that the mere thought of it set him on edge in a way any other woman would not have. Their friendship wouldn’t have survived; if she knew precisely what he thought of her, she’d be horrified.

Esme looked up from the scarred workbench where she was preparing dinner, then dropped her gaze. Will was seated on the other side of the bench, straddling a chair backward with a mug of tea in his hands. Hot amber eyes lit on Rip in an eerie, not-quite-friendly way.

“Esme,” Rip murmured. “You got a moment?”

Somehow he had to put this right. Explain to her that he’d never meant to take her as his thrall – that he didn’t dare. She didn’t owe them anything. She’d earned her right into this family over the years, no matter what the original deal of protection she’d made with Blade had been. Blade didn’t require her services anymore and Rip was hardly about to make fresh demands on her. She was free of her thrall contract.

Esme scraped a pile of butchered parsley off the chopping board into a bubbling pot on the enormous stove. “I’ve got to get dinner on.”

Rip shot Will a dark look and tipped his chin suggestively toward the door. “I’ll help,” he murmured. The way he usually did.

Will sat up a little straighter, setting the mug aside. His fingers curled around the back of the chair. Not going anywhere.

“That’s quite all right. Will can assist me.” Esme put the chopping board down, presenting her back to him. Tendrils of black hair trailed down her nape as she stared down at the board for a fraction longer than necessary.

She wouldn’t look at him. Rip’s teeth ground together, the thought of Will’s presence setting something off inside him, a flare of dark heat arrowing through his gut. Rip took a step toward her, hand curling into a fist.

“Esme, you weren’t meant to see that--”

“Evidently.” Setting a plucked chicken on the board, she picked up the cleaver and hefted its weight.

“I only meant--”

“You said you were fine.” The cleaver cut into the board with a meaty thunk, separating the leg from a chicken’s body. “That you didn’t require fresh blood. That you were drinking it cold, out of Blade’s supplies in the cellars.”

“I were,” he snapped, staring down at the stiffness between her shoulder blades. Look at me, damn you.

The cleaver made another decisive move and Will winced as the impact echoed in the cavernous room. Slowly he levered himself to his feet. “Think I’ll leave you two alone.”

Esme’s head jerked up. “What? Why?”

“Think you got matters to sort that ain’t to do with me,” Will replied.

“William Carver--”

Rip jerked his head. “Out.”

Esme didn’t like that none. She spun on him, her green eyes glittering with fury, the cleaver emphasising each word. “Don’t you think you can order him out of my kitchen! I want him to stay. I want you to leave.”

Will took his chance and bolted through the door.

“Looks like the decision’s been made,” Rip murmured.

As soon as Will left, the room suddenly seemed too small. Rip scraped a hand over his mouth, feeling the rough scratch of his stubble. Esme looked down, her jaw clenching as she set about dismembering the chicken. If he wasn’t mistaken he thought he heard a muttered, “Coward,” under her breath.

“I never meant you to be me thrall,” he started to say, watching as the cleaver flashed up and then buried itself in the board. “Weren’t ever me intention.” He swallowed hard, remembering that first night when he’d put his mouth