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“And me?”
“The jewelers downstairs are starting to unlock the window displays. You are safe,” he said again, and now it lived between them—safety.
I love him.
The latch scraped once more somewhere downstairs. A foot met the stair. Cold pushed under the door.
Go. Stay. Choose.
Rosine tipped her chin—small defiance, naked plea. “Sander,” she breathed, and his name tasted warm and reckless on her tongue. Rosine tipped her chin—small defiance, bare plea.
“Before the watch makes his round past the mews…will you take me back through the gate—to the Den’s kitchen door?”
The door stayed a handspan ajar; he didn’t touch it. He turned his palm up. She set her hand in his—fingers lacing, not a kiss but the shape of one held back—and felt his answer in the quiet press of his grip.
Chapter Six
The next day, during that hour before dawn, when the Den held its breath between mischief and morning, Sander stood his post and admitted what duty would not let him say aloud: he had walked Rosine to the door, he had not kissed her, and he wanted the chance again so fiercely it felt like a second pulse.
The house dozed. Cards lay face down. A lone drunk laughed and fell quiet. The banister’s polish caught a thin wash of lamplight, and his palm found the old groove he always found—habit, anchor, something to hold when the night twitched. He had done the sensible thing. He had put safety ahead of want. It should have eased him.
It doesn’t. Do it again anyway.
No one needed him this minute. He knew the Den’s timings. He left the stairhead and took the corridor to the very end, and where a narrow door kept its own small world. The latch gave way to his hand with a soft complaint.
The candle he kept here had dripped sideways last time; the wax made a stubby tower he’d meant to trim. In the corner—his board. Simple stained wood, squares worn at the centers from the many moves he’d tested. He struck the tinder and lit the candle. Light poured over the grid and steadied.
He didn’t sit. He set the pieces in their homes because order helped when heat did not. Knights down. Bishops waiting. Pawns lined like a promise. He placed the king’s before the queen’s; his thumb rested against the seam on the chessboard where black met white. When he drew breath, she filled it—lemon, warm sugar, the sound she’d made in his chambers when she told him to make her safe. He had wanted to answer with his mouth and had chosen his chest instead. He couldn’t live with taking advantage of her when her nerves were frayed from the dogs. Plus, he’d imagined this first kiss so many times. Never in his chambers but in broad daylight, perhaps under a tree in bloom. Certainly not with torn breeches from a dog bite. He’d missed out on the chance to kiss her.
You’ll live with it. You won’t like it.
Sander opened with the one line that steadied him when thought scattered: pawn to e4; …c6; d4; …d5. Calm, exact, survivable. The garden’s dark flickered back—the foxes scattering, the drag of chains, the heat of Rosine’s wrist against his. His calf throbbed as if the memory still had teeth. He rolled the hem of his pants, glanced at the scrape—nothing to fuss over. He’d tend it again later.
Once he exchanged in the center, slid the bishop out before the pawn wall was fixed, he tucked a knight to c3, and met …Bf5 with quiet purpose. Patience on a board he could teach to boys who wanted fireworks; patience in a room with Rosine, her mouth near his—that asked more of him than any endgame. Hold the line. Take her mouth. He kept the line for now.
Don’t think it.
He reached into his pocket and found the small white pawn he’d carried all night, the one with the shallow thumb-worn dent. He imagined setting it on her worktable when the ovens woke—no speech, only the plain shape of what he meant. Keep going. Choose your square. I will clear the line.
A step brushed the corridor outside. He stilled. Not a wolf’s weight. Lighter. The knob turned a fraction, polite, then more. The door eased inward.
“Puck told me you’d be here,” Rosine said. Puch was one of the other wolves at the Lyon’s Den. Her breath seemed soft from the stairs, cloak crooked, hair pinned up as if she’d done it with work-rough hands in the half light.
Alone with Rosine in this dark room. I want to kiss her more than anything.
He closed his eyes and groaned. Of course, Puck would send her to him. He had ears everywhere, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon couldn’t be far.
She lifted a palm. “No, no—I waved to him from the hall and asked. I stayed away from the gambling floor.”
He nodded once, and it felt inadequate. “Good.”
“It cost me a curious peek behind the velvet,” she said lightly. “Curiosity. I’ve never met a more stubborn thing.”
“Your curiosity?” His mouth twitched; it wasn’t safe to smile with her in a room and a candle between them.
“Yours.” She drew the linen bundle nearer and unwrapped the board. Pieces clicked into their places. “You and your secrets.”
“What secrets?” Tell her—don’t spook her.
