Flynn reached out and pushed a piece of heavy brown hair from her face, seeing her for the first time. She would never be considered pretty by the most conventional of standards, and it was why her disguise had been effective. She had a jaw that was too strong, cheeks that were too sharp, and brows that fell short of elegant. She didn’t have long sweeping lashes or a pert nose or a Cupid’s bow mouth. Perhaps, in the right clothing and the right accessories, she might be considered handsome, but her height and the span of her shoulders had probably intimidated more than one man. A warrior, he thought, his chest tightening in an unfamiliar way. His warrior. One who hadn’t run. One who had defended him. One who had defied him and fought.

One who would answer a great many questions for him when she woke up.

But a warrior who was still vulnerable and bleeding.

Flynn forced himself to shove all other thoughts from his mind for the time being. He ignored the wide strip of blood-smeared linen that bound her small but unmistakable breasts and examined the cut on the top of her shoulder. It didn’t look as deep as he had feared, the bulky coat taking the worst of the blade, but it was long and would require stitches. He balled up her ruined shirt and pressed the linen against the wound, winding her scarf under her arm and over her shoulder to keep it in place.

And went to fetch his kit.

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Charlotte was on fire.

No, that wasn’t entirely true—her shoulder was on fire while the rest of her was strangely chilled. Amid the merciless throbbing, she struggled to open her eyes as her mind fought to make sense of where she was. She was lying flat on her back, staring up at familiar rough-hewn rafters.

She was back in her room in the studio. How did—

It came back to her in a rush that made her flinch and surge upward.

Except she didn’t get anywhere because two hands were pushing her back down with an uncompromising strength. “Don’t move,” a voice growled in her ear. “I’m not quite done.”

A wave of realizations rolled over Charlotte, each worse than the last. She had been in a bloody street brawl. At some point in time, she must have fainted, because she didn’t remember the journey back here. She was naked from the waist up, save for the bindings around her breasts. Flynn Rutledge was seated beside her, doing something to her shoulder that felt like he was applying a branding iron.

And there was no way in hell that anyone in this room believed that she was a he any longer.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled, while shoring up her defenses and her arguments because she was going to need them all.