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Silence, then the low rustle of notes being counted—no triumph shouted, only the quiet that follows precision. The other wolves closed an easy ring to keep order; Sander rose, turned aside, and came toward the door.

They were in league, Rosine realized. Wolves and the queen, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

She stalled behind the velvet curtain, breath held, buns bright beneath linen, with Sander already in her path. Yes, she’d wanted to see him play again. It was rare, she knew, but when Sander played for the House, the floors trembled with excitement. And titled men paid to sit at a board with the House’s player, the stakes swelling a public purse—wagers for show. This game of wits seemed still but stirred the Lyon’s Den more than wagers over snakes and eating fire did. How could she not want to see him in action?

The board’s last click still rang in her ribs. She eased back into shadow, the velvet warm against her shoulder, the scent of cardamom from the tray rising like courage. Sander stopped as if he’d felt her heat through the curtain.

Her lips flattened. “Are you going to escort me back to the kitchen now?” She still crouched behind him, hidden, his back to hers. But she knew his voice and didn’t need to see him to have a conversation.

“Rosine,” he said quietly, without turning. “What are you doing here?”

“Choosing the right moment to speak to Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she murmured, the linen warming under her palms. There was an odd matter with the sugar she should indeed address with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. But it wasn’t why she’d been caught, and there was nobody she’d rather be caught with than Sander.

He looked up, and Rosine followed his gaze to the landing at the top of the staircase. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had watched the spectacle and surely saw Rosine. It was just like all that time ago when she’d first met Sander and Mrs. Dove-Lyon had sent her to him. The Black Widow of Whitehall saw everything, didn’t she?

He shifted a fraction, enough that his sleeve brushed the curtain. “I’ll take you to her.”

She drew a breath—lemon, sugar, but beyond the tray it was Sander’s scent, a mix of fresh tea and clean soap—and stepped out, tray steady, as the wolves thinned the crowd and the gambling room behind the door found its hum again.

He stepped back—not touching her but taking up all the space between her and the world. “The gambling floor is not your place.”

“And yet, you’re taking up all of my space.” Not that she’d mind being close to him, she just didn’t want him to block her view.

“This is not your floor, Rosine.” He nodded again, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed to retreat beyond the view of the balcony. The move had been made, and Sander obeyed without hesitation.

“Where is my floor? Downstairs, in the kitchen?” she snapped.

“Yes.”

That stung more than it should have. “I know my place,” she said sharply. But I want to make my own place—my own bakery—on my terms.

“It’s safer in the kitchen, Rosine,” Sander said, still blocking her view as if her sensitivity could be harmed by the goings on the gambling floor.

“Ah, yes, I’m useful there. Women belong tucked to the back of the lower floors, hm?”

“That’s not what I said,” Sander said so calmly that it was even more infuriating. How dare he send me into my compartment as if my life couldn’t unfold outside of the kitchen? “My place is next to the ovens. Not because I’m told, but because I carved it out.” And without sugar, I can’t carve anything. That’s why she ought to speak to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but Sander irritated her so, she nearly forgot the way.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Stop trying to trade your safety for this.” He nodded in the direction of the gambling hall behind him and squared his shoulders to occlude Rosine’s view at the same time. Sander’s insufferably strong torso was blocking her way!

He shouldn’t look so handsome when I’m upset with him; it must not be allowed.

“Rosine, please allow me to keep you safe,” he pleaded.

Right, he was, because gambling was risky, and so were the patrons as the night waned to morning. She shouldn’t trade her kitchen and oven for anything, especially not this. This meant him because he wasn’t gambling; he was a master at the chessboard. And yet she wanted him in ways that she knew were not wise.

Her throat tightened.

He’s right, and I wish he weren’t.

She had to get some air.

The sugar and Mrs. Dove-Lyon had to wait.

She turned sharply on her heel, her shoes clicking too loudly on the tile as she stormed away. She didn’t look back—wouldn’t give him the satisfaction even if he looked past the curtain.

Within minutes, the kitchen swallowed her in heat and spice. Steam coiled up her arms like a rebuke. She snatched her apron off the hook and yanked it into place, fingers stiff with annoyance.

“Got turned around, did you?” Marta called, emerging from the pantry, half-laughing and clearly oblivious to what had occurred beyond the fact that the girls from the kitchen weren’t allowed on the floor above.