Dancing With Danger (Goode Girls #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,13

the wrought iron gate of the wolf enclosure and flashed his cocksure grin. Though his suit was of the finest craftsmanship, his chocolate-colored hair hung longer than was proper beneath his hat. It lent his tall, rangy form an untamed element that added to the dangerous allure he weaponized against women.

Intelligent females saw through him before he was able to break their hearts.

The others, well...they went away more cynical and suspicious of handsome rogues.

Marco slid his whiskey-colored gaze to the wolf enclosure and studied the five creatures as they paced and panted, eyeing the men as if to invite them in rather than warn them away.

They were of a kind, these beasts.

Raphael hated to see them caged.

One wolf, a dark, scruffy fellow with a blaze of white on his wide chest, climbed the hill that had been artfully arranged with boulders and soil to appear as if made by the chaos of nature. As the beast approached a lounging grey wolf, he flattened his ears and made a feral sound, yellow eyes snapping with ferocity.

The grey wolf bolted upright, relinquished his position, and slunk away, head and tail low as he found a new spot to rest.

The alpha sat above all.

“Well, Jefe, everything has been arranged as you instructed.” Marco extracted a box of matches and lit a cigarette with a long draw before releasing the smoke on a heavy exhale. “Lord Longueville will be attending the Midwinter Masque, and will be likely to bring his generals from the High Street Butchers. You, Gabriel, and I will be present, of course, though I wonder if we should invite a third party to witness our conversation with Longueville. Word will spread that the battle for control of supplying vice to the ton is about to commence.”

“I do not disagree.” Raphael was careful not to let his complicated emotions show on his countenance. He was stirring trouble.

The lethal kind.

“I thought this was loco—I still do—but it might actually be crazy enough to work.” Marco puffed out a breath filled with smoke and wonder before he glanced up. Whatever he read in Raphael’s expression caused him to amend. “I should know better than to doubt you, Jefe.”

Raphael waved his hand, absolving him of all that. “We Fauves do not follow without question. We are predators, not sheep, and we must be cunning. Question everything.”

“As you say.” Marco’s head dipped in deference.

The hierarchy of the Fauves was not unlike those of the wolves. Intricate, subtle, and yet, brutally uncomplicated. There were no figureheads. No pomp or ceremony. There was the uncontestable leader of the pack. The alpha and his subordinates.

He was the one who led the hunters to their prey. And he was the one who took first blood. He claimed the greatest bounty before the rest of the pack fell upon it like scavengers.

But as the leader, it was incumbent upon him to provide, to remain uncontested. Or, if he was challenged, he must meet it with all the dominant ferocity of any king of beasts.

He had to win. Every time. To prove he was fit to lead.

That he was a man to be followed.

The mantle threatened to smother him sometimes.

But what else could he do? What else did he know?

Nothing.

This was all he was. All he had. A legacy of vice and villainy and a lifetime of lies. He was a man whose past was nothing but shifting shadows and secrets, and his future was—

An endless wasteland coated with the same.

Battles and blood, until one day a lesser beast would challenge him...and tear his throat out.

He’d have to.

Raphael was not the sort of man to submit to the sovereignty of another.

“Are you second-guessing the plan?” Marco queried, peering up from beneath the lowered brim of the hat. “If this goes awry, there will be blood.”

“There’s always blood,” he quipped. “This will be no different.”

Blood. Both red and blue.

He was playing a dangerous game, pitting his enemies and allies against each other.

A game where there would be victors, but no one truly won.

“No second thoughts,” he clarified. “All has been prepared except—”

A flash of light struck him blind for a moment and he winced, blinking rapidly. When he opened his eyes again, it was gone, leaving a disorienting shadow in his vision as if he’d glanced directly at the sun.

Once his vision cleared, he found the culprit immediately upon searching over Marco’s shoulder.

The sun had reflected off binoculars peeking over a shoulder-high hedge.

No, not binoculars. A shiny gold pair of opera glasses.

Gold, like