had raged. No one hurt the Bareknuckle Bastards’ men and lived.
Whit’s heart pounded with the memory even as the door to the room opened and closed, the young, bespectacled doctor wiping his hands with a clean cloth as he entered and approached. “I’ve sedated him,” the doctor said. “He shan’t wake for hours. You needn’t hover.”
Whit needed to hover. He protected his own.
The Bareknuckle Bastards reigned in the twisting labyrinth of Covent Garden, beyond the taverns and theaters made safe for the London toffs, where nothing was safe for outsiders. But Whit had come up through the Rookery alongside his half brother and the girl they called their sister—learning to fight like dogs for whatever scraps they could find. Fighting had become second nature, and they’d clawed themselves higher, starting a business and pulling the Rookery with them—hiring the men and women of the neighborhood for work in their myriad businesses: swinging pies in their taverns, tracking wagers in fight rings, butchering beef and tanning hides, and running the cargo that came in off the ships twice a month.
If they hadn’t secured the loyalty of the Garden as children, the money would have done it. The Bastards’ Rookery was known throughout London as a place that provided honest work for good wage and safe conditions, and from a trio who had built themselves from the dirt of the Garden’s streets.
Here, the Bastards were kings. Recognized and revered beyond the monarch himself; and why not? The other side of London might as well be the other side of the world for those who grew up in the Rookery.
But even a king couldn’t keep death at bay.
The unconscious young man—barely a heartbeat from boyhood—had taken a bullet for them. For it, he lay in a blindingly white room against blindingly white sheets, in the hands of fate, because Whit had been too late to protect him.
Always too late.
He shoved a hand in his pocket, his fingers rubbing over the warm metal of one watch, then the other. “Will he live?”
The doctor looked over from the table in the corner of the room, where he mixed a tonic. “Perhaps.”
Whit growled low in his throat, his hand fisting at his side . . . itching for a face. For a life. He’d been so close to it the night before—if he’d woken to the enemy, he might have had his retribution.
But he’d woken to the woman instead. Hattie, eager to play at a brothel while his men fought at the hands of a surgeon. And then she’d refused to give him a name.
He watched the sleeping form, the bed somehow making Jamie smaller and slighter than he was when he was hale, when he laughed with his brothers-in-arms and winked at pretty girls as they tripped past.
Hattie would give Whit the name of the man she protected—the one who’d stolen from him—the one who threatened what was his. The one who was working with the real enemy—and who would lead Beast to him once he suffered the full force of Beast’s wrath.
He’d rampage for Jamie and for all those under his protection here in the Garden, where scarcity threatened not a quarter of a mile from some of the richest homes in Britain. He’d rampage for the seven others who had come before him. For the three who had left this room and gone straight to the ground.
Another growl.
“I understand that you do not like it, Beast, but it is the truth. Medicine is imperfect. But it is the cleanest a wound can be,” the doctor added. “The bullet entered and exited; we stemmed the bleeding. It’s packed and protected.” He shrugged. “He could live.” He came closer. Extended the glass in his hand to Whit. “Drink.”
Whit shook his head.
“You’ve been awake for more than a day, and Mary tells me you haven’t had food or drink since you arrived.”
“I don’t need your wife watching me.”
The doctor cut him a look. “As you’ve been standing sentry in this room for twelve hours, she had little choice.” He extended the drink again. “Drink—for the cracking head you won’t admit you have.”
Whit took the drink, ignoring the throbbing ache at the back of his skull as he knocked it back, before swearing roundly at the taste of the rotten swill. “What in hell is that?”
The doctor took the glass and went back to his desk. “Does it matter?”
It didn’t. The doctor was unorthodox, rarely using a common cure when he could mix a paste or boil