He’d knocked her down with the best intentions, true, but she should’ve punched him harder for it. It’s good that nobody had been there to witness it, or she would be the laughing stock of the entire Mire. Cerise grimaced. She’d really wanted to hammer one right to his jaw, but hitting someone in the jaw all but guaranteed a sore hand. That was one of the first lessons her grandmother had taught her: Take care of your hands. You need them to hold your blade.
When she had finally staggered upright, that brown monstrosity was almost fifty yards away. It was huge and armored and armed with claws. And William had gone after it with a knife. She would’ve said he was insane or stupid, except by the time she got there, the Hand’s freak was bleeding like a stuck pig. She’d almost slipped on the trail of his blood. A few more minutes and William would’ve bled him dry.
The water in the shower stopped.
Cerise took off down the hallway before William stepped out and caught her staring at the door.
A pantry lay to the left. She sorted through the cans, looking for something with meat in it.
Cerise was pretty, she knew that. In the Mire, who she was and what she could do were always taken into account. She was Cerise Mar. She had the Rats at her back and her sword was famous. Her family wasn’t exactly prime in-law material and some men had a problem with how well she handled her blade, but still there were enough guys out there who would work their asses off for a chance to be with her. If she wanted to, she could have her pick, and she did, for a while, until she got bogged down in fixing the family finances.
Knowing you were poor was one thing. But living with that knowledge, having it rubbed in your face again and again, being forced to hustle, scheme, and finagle so you could buy the kids new clothes for the winter or post bail for a relative, that was another thing. It drained her will to live.
And then there was Tobias. He turned out to be a piece of work.
Now if a man came on to her, the first thing that went through her mind was what did he really want? Was he after her or after the family’s money, what little there was of it? Was he trustworthy? How badly could he screw up, and how much would it cost the family if they had to make the issue go away? That one drank too much, this one had a kid from the first marriage that he wanted to see well taken care of by someone else, the third one humped anything that moved … Too reckless, too stupid, too quick to anger … Soon she got a reputation for being choosy, and she didn’t think she was. And even if she was, she couldn’t afford not to be.
But William didn’t know any of that. He didn’t know the first thing about her and didn’t give a damn about her family. She blindsided him and got an honest reaction.
Cerise recalled the look in his eyes and shivered.
The question was, what would she do when he came out of the shower? The thought stopped her in her tracks. He had to be in good shape. He was strong like an ox—dragging the punt through the swamp singlehanded was no picnic, and he’d picked her and the bags up and run, as if their combined weight were nothing. Her imagination tried to paint a picture of William coming out of the shower and toweling off, and she slammed the door on that thought real fast. It was fine if he was smitten. But she had other things to worry about.
A part of her really wanted to find out if his reaction was just a one-time thing or if she could get him to look at her that way again.
Cerise swiped two cans of beef stew off the shelf and headed back to the kitchen. Doesn’t matter, she told herself. You’re not fifteen. Put it out of your mind. You have parents to rescue.
In a few minutes he’d step out of the shower, and she had to treat him like a potential enemy, no matter what he looked like. Safer that way.
Lord Bill was an enigma. He dressed like a blueblood, he talked like a blueblood, but he came to the Mire through the Broken. Nobles from the Weird usually couldn’t enter the Broken. They were too full of magic, and they had to turn back or ended up dying. Either he was a dud magically or there was something very funky going on with his bloodline. Then there were the eyes full of fire. And now this.
He knew of the Hand. She had to make use of that. She could always kill him if he stepped out of line.
The stove had a fancy glass top. Cerise turned it on, waited until one of the burners glowed red, set a pot on it, and dumped the stew into it. Blueblood or not, she would figure Lord Bill out sooner or later. Or they would go their separate ways and the problem would solve itself.
The door opened.
It was curiosity, Cerise decided. Just normal healthy curiosity. She pretended to be occupied with the stew.
She could just look up at him and glance away … Oh, Gods.
Instantly she knew she’d made a mistake.
He wore jeans and a white T-shirt. His clothes molded to him. William wasn’t built, he was carved, with hard strength and lethal speed in mind. No give, no weakness. He had the honed, lean body of a man who was used to fighting for his life and liked it that way. And he strode to her like a swordsman: sure, economical movements touched with a natural grace and strength.
Their stares met. She saw the shadow of the feral thing slide across William’s eyes, and she stopped stirring the stew.
They stared at each other for a long tense moment.
Damn it. That was not supposed to happen.
She turned to grab two metal bowls, poured the stew into them, and set them on the table. He took his seat, she took hers, their stares crossed again, and Cerise wasn’t sure which one of them was in more trouble.
William leaned forward, pulling his bowl closer as if she was about to take it from him. He needed a shave, but then he didn’t look bad with the stubble. Quite the opposite, in fact. He kept his expression calm, but she knew with some sort of inborn female intuition that he was thinking about her and about doing things with her. She felt like a fifteen-year-old dancing with a boy for the first time, nervous, and shaky, and trying not to say or do the wrong thing but thrilled deep inside every moment.
Great. She couldn’t decide which one of them was the bigger idiot.
“The food is crap. Sorry. But it’s hot,” she said, keeping her tone calm.
“I’ve had worse.” His voice was flat, too.
“This stove is great.”
William looked up from his bowl. “What do you cook on?”
“The main house has a huge woodstove and a small electric one. It’s not nearly as nice.” Cerise sighed, glancing at the glass-top stove with a small GE logo. “I want to steal this one.”
“Good luck getting it past that damn eel.” He dug into his stew.
“If we bring it along, you can always drop it on him.”
He paused, as if he was actually considering dragging the stove through the swamp.
“I’m joking,” she told him.
William shrugged and went back to his food.
A thin red stain spread through the side of his shirt.
“You’re bleeding.”
He raised his arm and looked at his side. “Must’ve reopened it. That asshole clawed me.”
Those claws were half a foot long. “How deep?”
He shrugged again. More red seeped through.
“Stop shrugging.” She jumped off her chair and walked over to him. “Lift your shirt.”
He peeled the shirt up, exposing his side. Two deep gashes crossed his ribs. Nothing life threatening but nothing that would do him any good untreated either.
“Why didn’t you bandage this?”
“No need. I heal fast.”