One of the officers balked, but Junker held up one hand. “Now, now. For a secret like that, you’ll have to win the next round.”

While they made their bets and played their hands, Liam’s gaze roved the tavern. So much more cramped than he would have liked, and there was little chance he would get Junker alone. Even if things went so sour that Junker decided to shoot him, he seemed like the kind of bastard who would do it right here, in front of everyone.

Liam forced himself to breathe steadily. He couldn’t worry about being found out. He was getting by on his wits alone so far, but he needed a backup plan. This was too important to let his only chance slip away—he needed to set things right, he needed to stay in control.

He studied the two guards behind Junker, who were doing their best to blend in with the ugly brocade walls. One, his dark eyes gleaming, caught Liam staring and stared right back.

Liam’s throat tightened. He suddenly felt very exposed, as if this man—boy, really, probably his same age—could see exactly what he was playing at, the shadows pooling around him and the darkness consuming his thoughts. Liam shrank back, not wanting to look away first.

Then the guard shifted his weight, and Liam caught it: the rip and stain on the guard’s jacket beneath his right arm, though he held it stiffly at his side to cover it.

The whispers in his head turned into a warning roar.

“Mr. Doyle?” Junker asked. “Your hand?”

Shit. Liam swallowed, a new terror prickling at his scalp. He hurriedly spread his cards out as his mind whirred. His cards weren’t the highest or lowest this time. The rotten-mouthed officer, Stauffen, asked one of the other men for a secret about a secretary at headquarters. But Liam wasn’t listening. He was trying to catch another glimpse of the guard’s jacket from the corner of his eye, trying to add up numbers that refused to sum.

He saw more clearly now: the way it pulled too tight at the guard’s broad shoulders. The cuffs that didn’t reach his wrists, his long, slender fingers.

The knife tear.

The hasty bleach stain turning the fabric pale green around it.

Stauffen started dealing their hands for round three. The guard was watching Liam, eyes narrowed in warning. Dark eyes, darker hair, a single curl draping down his forehead. Liam gripped his cards to anchor himself—the shadows were getting impatient along with him, anxious to be unleashed.

“Congratulations, Mr. Doyle.” Junker held his hands up in defeat. “What secret would you like to claim?”