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Shouts cracked behind the wall; a chain rasped, a kennel latch clattered. The Pembrokes’ hounds weren’t loose in the streets—they’d been turned into the back ways. One vaulted a shallow paling, another shouldered through a broken slat, pads skidding on the wet stone as a handler’s whistle urged them on. They kept to the narrow run between garden walls; the voices bounded and then balked at each gate.

Then Regent Street opened ahead, pale with mist. A hack’s lamps bobbed past; a watchman’s rattle sounded two corners over. A sharp whistle cut through the air; the dogs pulled up short at the mouth of the lane, trained not to break onto the thoroughfare. He didn’t look back. Survival looks forward. Past the shuttered milliner, past the pawnbroker’s dull gilt balls—there, the jeweler’s side door. “Almost,” he said, and pulled her with him, his hand warm and sure around hers.

He no longer heard the dogs but knew they were close. There was only his breath and Rosine’s beside him.

He shouldered the side door; the latch gave. He pulled her inside and let the dark fold over them. Outside, noise fell to a muffled clamor and the scrape of paws losing heart.

Up one flight, two—the stairs turned tight as a fist. His room was welcoming and held pause after the haste and danger outside. They’d not been able to outrun the dogs, but they’d closed the door, and soon enough, they’d be otherwise distracted or return home.

Rosine exhaled, but was shaking. Lemon and warm sugar clung to her skin; it sharpened his fear but not of the dogs anymore.

“Rosine?” His voice came rough with something he’d rather leave unnamed.

At first, she shrugged, but then she bit her lip, arms locked across her chest, seemingly holding the tears where they were.

The jeweler’s side door held a pocket of dark. His hand—trained to stillness—hovered, then fell. Old silences had kept him alive; they were useless with a woman shaking in front of him.

“You left angry,” he said, not yet breathing evenly after the running.

“You blocked my view,” she returned, breathless, “and then you…didn’t.” Her laugh broke on the last word, half-scold, half-shiver.

“This time I meant to stand between you and sharp fangs.” He kept his voice low. Lean on me when you are scared, Rosine. Oh, let me protect you.

She swiped her cheeks, trying for brisk speech. “It was close. Those dogs—”

“Yes.” Stupid. Is this the best you can strategize to respond? Yes? He nearly slapped his forehead with his palm, but was even too nervous to do that.

Only then did her eyes fixate on the tear at his breeches, a dark smear just above the knee.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.” It stung like fire, but Rosine here, in his chambers—this meant so much more than the dog’s bite in his shin.

Her gaze lifted—steadier now. “You came after me.”

“I’ll come every time,” he said, and left it there, as plain as a house rule.

The city outside his window seemed to move past—distant wheels, a watchman’s rattle, the hounds called off—but time halted for Sander. She’s in my chambers.

“Tell me how to earn back your good opinion,” he said, because the shine in her eyes undid him more than the bite. “I’ll start there.”

“You saved me,” she said. The corners of her mouth tried a smile and nearly made it. “And you didn’t tell me to stay in the kitchen. I… I…”

“You’ve been through enough danger, Rosine. I prefer you safely near me,” he said. “Wherever you choose to stand—so long as I can stand nearby.”

Her pulse ticked at her throat; his answered like a drum he couldn’t quiet. He leaned—just enough to feel her breath—then checked himself, palm braced on the doorjamb to leave her the whole doorway. Do not pen her in. Do not steal what must be offered.

Heat rose between them. A curl at her temple trembled; he could have smoothed it with his mouth. Press in, hear her say your name—no, stop.

He hovered, the smallest space between them, every nerve lit. The kitchen was always full of Bridget and Marta. Wolves and wagers crowded the Den. His rooms would be too improper. Never the right place—unless she’d make it one.

Her chin tipped up; her lips parted, soft as a promise. He didn’t move. If she came that last inch, he would be lost and glad of it. She didn’t. A watchman’s rattle chattered in the street outside; a lantern bobbed past the alley and flickered through the window.

He exhaled, slowly. “Walk you back?”

“Yes.” She slid her hand into his—sure, warm, choosing.

Chapter Five