Soulbound (Darkest London 6)

Through the strained silence, he cleared his throat. “Do not forgive me, Eliza, unless you mean it.” He turned and faced her head-on. “Regardless of where we stand, I’ll not argue with you or treat you with disrespect. But I’ll no’ harbor false hope. That I cannot tolerate.”

Eliza found herself turning as well so that she might see him better in the muffled dimness. “What is it that you are hoping for?”

The thick fan of his black lashes swept down, hiding his gold eyes. “That we might…” – his cheek twitched – “be friends.”

Her breath hitched, and in the dark, she rested a hand against her belly. Friends? Could she be friends with him? Protest surged forth, hot and deep. How could she even think it? And yet, she’d been the one to offer forgiveness. Had she been merely performing lip service?

He waited quietly, not pushing, not backing away. The cart dipped and bounced along the road, making his big, rough body sway. He was a patient man, but also capable of cold cunning. Capable of torturing as well. She remembered the shadow crawler Darby that Adam had ordered about like a slave and ultimately killed by simply stopping his heart. All without batting an eye. And yet, even though he’d chained her, she had never feared for her physical safety.

He’d never even raised his voice to her, save that one time when her never-ending silence had pushed him past patience.

“You agreed to be mine. Mine! And now you act as though you’ve been tricked. I gave you life anew. I look after your every comfort, for all that you ignore it. What do you want of me? What?”

“Freedom.”

Eliza flinched at the memory. At the desperate anger that had sharpened his tone, and the pleading that had been in hers. And what had his answer been? No. He would not give that which she yearned for most.

Bitterness was a fist punching against the inside of her ribs. Part of her didn’t want to look at Adam, big, strong wreck of a man, whom she had freed. She’d taken him out of hell, at the risk of her own freedom. The bitterness within her grew.

“I don’t know if I can be your friend,” she said, not surprised at the waspishness in her voice.

Though he clearly tried to prevent it, his expression fell to disappointment. For a long moment, he visibly swallowed, several times, as though tasting his own bitterness. “Do you… might you be able to one day? To truly forgive me?”

Gods, but he shocked her. He wasn’t one to beg. He certainly had no reason to with her.

“Why does it matter to you?” she found herself asking. “You no longer need me to avoid Mab. What’s done is done. I won’t help you more or less based on friendship.”

He adjusted his position, the numerous wounds making his movements jerky and stilted. Focusing on one of the barrels they were squeezed between, he spoke in a low, almost irritated voice. “Not everything is about the fae witch. What lies between us, Eliza May, is ours alone.”

Chapter Nine

Torture had changed him. For the first time in his life, Adam did not think in terms of the future but focused on the here and now, or rather¸ focused on escaping the here and now. When he’d made his bargain with Eliza May, he wanted only to get away. Get away from Mab, regain his strength, and exact his revenge. Lofty goals for a man who’d been chained these past months. Now, as the wagon rolled to a gentle halt and the sounds of Eliza stirring caught his attention, grave misgivings roiled around within him.

They were in front of a GIM public house. Early as it was, it would not yet be filled with patrons. But there would be witnesses enough. And he would have to ask for their help. He’d have to tell them who he was, and they would see the pathetic state he now lived in. Humiliation was a bitter taste in his mouth, and he nearly squeezed his eyes closed.

But Eliza needed him sharp. So he did what he must and hauled himself to sitting. Well, a half slump. Hells clamoring bells, he was a pathetic wreck. A king no longer. Breathing too fast and light, he struggled to find a steady voice.

“I’ll…” He swallowed down a fist-sized lump of humility. “I shall need your help quitting the cart.”

A tiny wrinkle formed on Eliza’s smooth brow. “Well, of course you will. Your leg is broken, as are a number of your ribs and left arm.” Silly man was implied.

“I am healing,” he added with a touch of acid. “There is that, even though it is at a snail’s pace.”

“We need to get those blasted chains off so you can heal faster.”

“No truer words, dove.”

She shoved a pair of lumpy, mismatched boots onto his feet, and he wanted to laugh. Paired with the plaid pants and tatty shirt, he looked no better than a court jester.

They ought to have used the back-alley entrance. Even on this shadowy, dismal street, lined with crooked houses that sagged in on each other, he garnered too much attention. “Act as though I’m a drunken sot,” he murmured against Eliza’s neck.

She shivered, but she began to vocally chastise him. “I ought to have stayed in Boston with mother. You’re a no-account lout and hanging three sheets to the wind to boot. Just look at yourself, barely able to walk, and here you are seeking out more.” She hissed in disgust.

“Shut yer hole an’ do as yer told,” he said in a loud slur.

Muttering and grousing, Eliza all but stumbled them into the small, dark pub. All heads turned their way. And then the barkeep did a double take. “Sire?”

Adam looked the man over. Alan Brown. GIM age: eighty-seven years. Death age: twenty-nine. Cause of death: knife to the gut after his fellow thieves took exception to Alan’s portion of the take. Souls owed Adam: three.