“Rawley has agreed to stay behind. Right now, we have the pressing matter of your identity to resolve, and you will be much safer in England, clearly.”

Ashvale left, but not before sending another seething look in Valentine’s direction that promised nothing but violence. When he eventually demanded his pound of flesh, that was going to be a spectacle of pugilism for the record books. Valentine didn’t blame him—if he had a sister, he’d have done the same. He cleared his throat and glanced over to where Bronwyn was wringing her hands with a distraught look on her face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Get out. This is all your fault.”

He lifted a brow. “My fault?”

“Why couldn’t you have just gone back to England?” she said.

Valentine exhaled. “Because I can’t seem to let you go.”

The words dropped like lead ballast between them, and her eyes shone with the gleam of tears before she turned her face away. “God, is that all I am to you? A target? A stupid bird to be caught? The fantastic prize of the Kestrel to be caged and lauded as the greatest arrest in the history of time? You probably led those men here when you decided to pursue me, and then you locked me away in here like some damsel in a tower!”

Valentine deserved her wrath, but he’d been out of options and terrified half to death at how close he’d come to losing her. The gendarmes in Paris were looking for signs of the man or any accomplices, though without the shooter’s testimony, they didn’t have much to go on. The rifle in the young man’s possession had been of American issue, but he’d carried no identifying papers. Until he woke up, they had nothing.

Following her brother’s footsteps to the door, Valentine paused in the corridor and looked over his shoulder. “If you want me to apologize for keeping you safe, I won’t. Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Face unreadable, she closed the distance between them, her throat working as though she had something to say. Her eyelashes fell, hand shaking as she gripped the edge of the door. With her crimson cheeks and trembling lips, she was so beautiful and fragile, he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her. “Valentine?”

The whispered cadence of his name gripped his heart in a fist. “Yes?”

“You can go fuck yourself right into next week, the week after, and all the other weeks to come,” she said sweetly and then slammed the door in his face.

A half-amused, half-aroused Valentine revised his statement. She was certainly beautiful…but she was far from fragile. The sooner he reconciled that in his head, the better off he would be.

Nineteen