Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,3

gave their upbringing in the rookery away. No, indeed. She believed it an excellent idea to bring more of them to Mayfair.

One great, surly beast in particular.

Devil Winter.

Nay, Evie refused to think of him as such. Instead, she would think of him as Mr. Nothing. And one could only hope that soon enough he would be nothing in her life, returned to the gaming hell where he belonged, along with his disturbingly blue eyes and the wickedest lips she had ever seen upon a man.

Why did he have to be so…

Oh, bother. She would not think it.

Another slow, deep breath, and she tried again.

“I know you are only concerned for me, my dearest sister. However, I am certain the shot that was fired in the park was not meant—”

Her words died.

Because in the next moment, the world exploded. Everything seemed to happen, all at once.

A loud report was followed by the shattering of glass. The window of her chamber fell to the floor in a thousand pieces. Something whisked past her shoulder, leaving a stinging sensation in its wake. Bits of plaster ceiling and dust rained down from overhead.

Her arm was wet. Wet and burning. Tickling. Something was sticky and warm on her flesh. She pressed a hand to the sleeve of her gown, her fingers finding it torn and ragged. More wetness greeted her fingertips.

In shock, she examined her fingers.

They were dripping with scarlet.

Blood. Her own.

Dear God, she had been shot.

A scream tore from her throat.

Her vision turned dark around the edges. She felt hot, then cold. The prickle of perspiration broke out on her forehead. And then her knees went weak. The door to her chamber burst open, and the faint sound of a deep voice calling her name reached her.

But it was too late.

Her world went black.

Devil was accustomed to all manner of violence. Knife attacks, gunshot wounds, fires. The only constant in the rookeries was that anything could happen at any time, and a man was never truly safe. He was always prepared, even in his sleep.

But the gunshots fired into his half brother’s Mayfair townhome?

He had not been expecting them.

Dom and Lady Adele were not at home this morning, having both gone to The Devil’s Spawn, leaving Devil to the work of beginning his new plan of protecting the townhome and its occupants. One moment, he was instructing his men on where they were to be stationed, and the next, the unmistakable sound of shots being fired erupted from the street. He was running before the shattering glass and the scream. Heart thundering in his chest, he plowed through the door of Lady Evangeline’s chamber.

One of the windows was shattered, shards glittering all over the floor as the window dressings blew in the wind. She was on the floor in a heap of cream-colored skirts and crimson blood.

Devil was on his knees at her side in an instant. The sleeve of her gown was torn, covered in red. Her fingers were coated, her face pale. But her breathing was steady, her bosom rising and falling. He wasted no time in lifting her in his arms and carrying her from the chamber, lest there was any further danger. Such a tiny thing she was, light as a bird in his arms. She felt like something fragile and delicate, fashioned of porcelain rather than human flesh. But she was all too real, capable of being harmed. Her blood spilled.

Fuck.

He needed to assess the extent of her wounds.

His men caught up to him in the hall.

“Get to the street,” he barked at them as he carried a limp Lady Evangeline toward his chamber. “Find the bastard responsible for this!”

They hurried to do his bidding. He stalked down the hall to the guest chamber he had been given and shouldered his way through the door. Lady Evangeline was coming to in his arms, groaning. He laid her on his bed, taking care not to jostle her.

Golden lashes fluttered. Gently, he brushed the curls framing her face aside. Her eyes opened, wide, brown pools. The color was returning to her cheeks. All good signs.

“Where are you injured?” he asked, assessing her bleeding wound.

Through the ruined fabric, he detected what appeared to be a long line on her upper arm.

“Just…my arm. I think.” She blinked, then struggled to sit up.

He kept her still by flattening his palm over her unwounded shoulder. “No moving.”

He needed to make certain she was not bleeding anywhere else. It was possible a lone bullet had grazed