Flynn sat, head hanging, hand running up the back of his neck.
He’d fucked up.
Eyes stinging, he collapsed into the plush wing-backed chair, fingers trembling over cracked lips. The wicked contusion staining his flank jolted fire alongside his spine. He grimaced, accepting it as penance. He’d promised he wasn’t gonna do that again…be that animal.
Christ, it’d felt good.
It always did. Until he came back to himself and saw the aftermath caught in the half-moons of his nails, the creases at his wrists. The memory of what he’d done leaving him shaking with that goddamn gnawing in his guts for a drink, trying to forget how much he’d liked it.
They’d deserved it.
He chewed his lip. What right did he have to make that determination? Shit, he’d earned worse…but Kara hadn’t. Neither had his kid.
If he still had a kid.
His gaze slid across the expansive room to the curtained fourposter bed. Her form lost in shadow, an extension of self, taking up every bit of talent he was pushing her, searing his insides raw. He didn’t care, the burn was nothing. He’d crawl through hell to save them. His eyes dropped to his hands, knuckles ragged and swollen.
He had. Jumped right into the fire, and it’d only made things worse. Goddamn his temper.
They’d all know what he’d done.
What he was.
“… I swear to God, I wish I was a fucking twist, then I wouldn't have to pretend…”
Flynn scrubbed a hand over his face. For once in his life, he hadn’t, and he’d pissed away House Scot’s political power in the process. If he confessed and registered, Cal might be able to salvage some of it. Maybe enough to protect her.
There was a soft knock at the door, and the massive oak slab was pushed inward on well-oiled hinges. French wheeled in a sterling coffee service. The flickering light from the marble hearth bounced off its polished curves onto the glossy pastries at its side.
Christ, he’d just wanted a cup.
“The constable major will be in his office within the hour, per your request, sir,” the man intoned, working the cafetière. He’d gotten old. Flynn took in the familiar livery and stiff mustache waxed into precise loops, bone white instead of the salt-and-pepper grey he remembered. “I’ve brought suitable garments. Will you require assistance?”
Flynn’s eyes went to the freshly brushed jacket and trousers hanging from the bar of the cart. French handed him the cup and saucer with a flourish, then stood, awaiting his pleasure.
The enameled china chattered in Flynn’s hands, and he fought the urge to wing the fucking thing into the fireplace. “You’re gonna have to find a different jacket. The last one I borrowed from Lot didn’t work out so well.”
The seams would split when they cuffed him. The press would love that. He took a sip of coffee. Christ, it was a far cry from freeze-dried.
French began making him up a plate of pastries. “That shouldn’t be an issue, Lady Breakspear sent over several options, along with this.” He took an envelope from his breast pocket and held it out to him.
Flynn’s stomach lurched. Shit. There was only one thing the First Breaker could want to speak to him about. He stared at it for a long moment before taking it from the man.
It was unaddressed and heavier than it should’ve been, thick cream parchment with a raised wax seal the color of dark cherries. She’d used her signet to stamp a stylized ‘B’ into the blob. French held out a slim blade before he could ask.
Flynn’s hands went through the motions, opening it by rote, though it’d been years. No exotic perfume rose up with the gold-lined flap, and the page within was free of ill-conceived prose. Two words stared back at him.
Breaker Business.
What the ever-loving fuck?
They weren’t outing him… Anger devoured his bewilderment. It had to be blackmail. He flung the missive into the flames. Not up here ten goddamn hours, and he was already hip-deep in political fucking intrigue. They’d expect something in return for keeping this quiet…if they could. There’d been more than just Breakers kissing the ground out there. Flynn bit into one of the pastries French had set beside him. Still…it gave him time.
“What’re they saying in the city?”
“The aid-workers are reporting any number of improbabilities, everything from aliens to the second coming of Christ, but those whom survived the Sons’ attack have been markedly silent. One wonders how long that will last.”
“Until their wallets become noticeably thicker. How many nobles were on the train?”
“Just your party. The hour was a bit too raw for your brethren,” French said, topping off his coffee. “I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling Ernesto to attend to your needs before Assembly begins.”
Flynn glanced at the butler, reading all he needed to in his eyes. Bastard had known exactly what he was planning. Had he known what was in that note? Christ, he wouldn’t put it past him. Man was worse than Cal with that shit.
And now it was time to play the part.
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