30. Chapter 30

Chapter thirty

Something fell loose inside her chest at the sight of Rowland strolling into the warehouse, hands in his pockets, a cigarette between his lips, and his head ducked low, keeping his face in shadow beneath this flat cap. When he raised his chin, and the light caught the blue of his eyes, she knew she was safe. No harm would come to her in any room Rowland was in. Even as one of Bishop’s men pressed the cold muzzle of his pistol to the side of her head, she wasn’t afraid.

Rowland fixed his gaze on Bishop. He reached up, took his cigarette between his first two fingers, and took a long drag before blowing the smoke out. Iris never found his smoking attractive until that moment. The piercing, glacial gleam in his eyes was frighteningly commanding. She had no idea what would come next.

“All right,” he said. “Your weapons are waiting for you in the truck outside.”

Iris blinked, taken aback. She had not anticipated Rowland simply fulfilling Bishop’s request. There had to be something more to this.

“My men are seeing to those promptly,” Bishop said. “You came alone?”

“Do you see anyone else?” Rowland gestured with his free hand to the empty space behind him. “You said come alone, and I did.” He opened up his jacket to reveal empty holsters. “You said to come unarmed, and I did. I’ve done everything you asked, now get my woman out of those fucking ropes.”

The corner of Bishop’s mouth kicked up into a smirk. “Lady Iris will be returned to you in good time, Mr. Sinclair. But since I’ve got you here, I thought the two of us might…negotiate. So we won’t have any troubles like this in the future.”

Rowland stepped closer with a skeptical click of his tongue. “You see, Goddard, that all depends on how nicely you’ve been treating my Iris.”

“You can see she’s perfectly all right—”

“Iris, darling, are you hurt?”

Finally, Rowland turned toward her, and she saw the assurance in his eyes. He had a plan. She met his gaze and held on tight. Remembering her aching muscles and chafed skin, she answered.

“Yes.”

“Are you frightened?” he continued.

“I’m trembling,” she said, deadpan.

His head swiveled back to face Bishop. “That won’t do, Goddard.”

Bishop stared at her, incredulous, before facing Rowland again. “Discomfort is to be expected given the circumstances, but I assure you, she’s fine.”

Rowland darted another glance at her. “Get that gun out of her face.”

The gunman shot a questioning look at Bishop, who waved his hand in a shooing motion away from Iris. The pressure came off of her temple, and she relaxed back into the chair. She didn’t know what Rowland’s plan was, and the longer he talked with Bishop, the more confused she became. But that look he gave her kept her strong, kept her from questioning him. He had something up his sleeve, she knew it.

“Now that we’ve both proven ourselves men of our word, perhaps we can start this as a business meeting,” Bishop said.

“I don’t know how you run things, Goddard, but I’ve never conducted a business meeting with a woman tied up in the room,” Rowland replied as he removed his cap and ran a hand through his hair.

“Think of her more as insurance.”

“That wasn’t the deal. The guns for Iris. Or you’re not truly a man of your word.”

“You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

“I’ve got no interest until Iris is back in my arms.”

The mere mention of being in his arms had her body craving it. She barely contained a whimper, but she couldn’t stop herself from scooting up the chair to be even an inch closer to him.

Bishop looked at her, then back at Rowland, and then went back and forth a few times as he considered it. Hope rose in her heart. Maybe in a few seconds she would be able to relax her arms, straighten her legs, and collapse into Rowland. She could tell him how sorry she was.

Bishop shook his head. “I can’t—”

The sound of a scream from outside cut him off. Gunshots followed quickly after, and then Declan, the man who shot Rowland on Iris’s birthday, came hobbling into the warehouse, cradling a bleeding shoulder.

“Ah, Declan, we meet again,” Rowland said, as if they had run into each other on the way to a party.

Declan ignored him and frowned at Bishop, speaking between heaving breaths. “The Crimson Devils are here.”

With that, he fell into a heap on the floor.

Bishop’s face reddened with rage. He rounded on his man next to Iris. “Shoot her! ”

Before Iris could blink, a knife sailed past her and plunged into the gunman’s eye with a sickening thunk . He howled as he fell backward. With a grimace, Iris looked back at Rowland, but he was facing off with Bishop.

“Now you’ve thrown away your only weapon,” Bishop said, victory in his voice.

Rowland swung out with his cap, catching Bishop in the face. To Iris’s surprise, red slits appeared around his eyes and cheeks and beads of blood ran toward his neck. He raised his hands, but cried out again when Rowland’s cap chewed up his fingers because Rowland was relentless. He struck and struck and struck , until he had Bishop backed up against one of the crates. Rowland raised his cap again, and Iris spotted it—a razor blade sewn into the back. It gleamed red with Bishop’s blood.

Bishop held an arm up and reached for the gun in the holster by his hip, but his hands were slick with blood and he dropped it. Rowland kicked it away, and it skittered across the floor. He pressed his body against Bishop’s, trapping the latter against the crate, and then Rowland took hold of Bishop’s ear, and brought the razor blade up to the lobe.

Iris squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away, but that didn’t block out Bishop’s agonized scream.

A herd of footsteps made her open her eyes again. She watched the Crimson Devils march in, black and gray coats swishing behind them, a few of them with blood spattered across their chests, cheeks, and sleeves. Rowland’s brother, Ezra, led them, a gun in each hand. Declan moved, Ezra shot him in the head, and then he was still. The man with the knife in his eye groaned, and another one of the Devils came around Iris’s chair to finish him off with two shots.

“Lady Iris,” said the Devils’ man. “My name’s Frankie. I’m gonna cut you loose, all right?”

“Yes, all right.” Her voice shook with anticipation.

Frankie flipped open a switchblade. “You want your arms or your legs free first?”

“Arms, please. And thank you for being polite about it.”

“My pleasure, my lady. Hold the rope taut for me, yeah?”

She spread her wrists as far apart as they would go, and Frankie sawed through the layers. Her eyes found Rowland again. He and Ezra wrestled a bloodied Bishop down to his knees. Rowland gripped a handful of Bishop’s hair and forced him to face Declan and the other man lying dead next to Iris.

“Look at your men, Goddard,” Rowland said. “Ezra, how many of Goddard’s men are alive outside?”

“None,” Ezra answered.

“None,” Rowland repeated slowly, bending low until he was right in Bishop’s ear. “Do you know why they call us the Crimson Devils, Goddard?”

“N-no,” Bishop stammered.

“Because wherever we go, we leave a trail of crimson behind us. It’s a warning, you see. One you chose not to heed, and now here you are. Utterly alone and at our mercy. Which I’m sorry to inform you, we generally leave to our priests.”

Rowland stood up straight and held out his hand. Ezra passed him a pistol, and Rowland pressed it into the back of Bishop’s head. Rowland rose to his full height, his chest heaving, blood smeared across his cheeks and neck, and Iris felt the most absurd throb between her legs. But it could hardly be helped when he looked so good with his jaw set with rage, poised to kill in order to protect her. He stood like a god delivering his final judgment .

“Any last words?” he said.

Bishop spit out some blood from his mouth. “God in heaven—”

BANG. Rowland’s shot rang out, more blood burst from Bishop’s forehead, and then he toppled forward like a chopped tree. A crimson puddle formed below his head, spreading over the concrete.

“Fuck your last words,” Rowland growled, and stowed his weapon in his holster.

Not a god , Iris thought. My man is all Devil .

At last, the final rope was cut, and Iris nearly wept with relief as she brought her arms back in front of her. Frankie shuffled over to kneel in front of her and placed a gentle hand on her calf.

“Is this all right, my lady?” he asked.

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

Rowland stepped over Bishop’s body and wrenched his knife free from the dead man’s face before kneeling on Iris’s other side and getting to work on the ropes there. His hand hovered, as if he were about to place his hand on her knee, but he hesitated, and went straight to cutting instead. When her ankles were free, she stretched her legs out with a satisfied groan.

Rowland’s eyes found hers. The ice in his stare had melted away, replaced with anguish.

“Give us a moment,” he said to his men, without moving his gaze from her face, and they dispersed. The warehouse fell quiet, and Rowland kept staring up at her, eyes shining. “Did they rape you?”

“No, Rowland,” she said.

“Did they try?”

“No. They talked about it, but they never touched me.”

His shoulders sagged and he exhaled. He finally allowed himself to touch her, and she welcomed the warmth of his palm on her thigh. She ran a hand down his arm until she found his fingers and interlocked them with her own. And for a moment, they were still.

Rowland got to his feet and helped Iris out of the chair. Her legs wobbled beneath her, so she leaned against him for support. He stood strong.

“Rowland, I–” she paused, her breath hitching over the lump in her throat. She wondered when her eyes had started to sting with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

She crumpled, falling into his arms, but sure he would catch her, and he did. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She didn’t know if they were from the fear she hadn’t acknowledged or the overwhelming relief that he was there. Holding her in his arms as if they had never had that fight. As if nothing had changed between them. And perhaps nothing had, not truly. After all, he was as constant and true as he was in the beginning.

He stroked her hair and shushed her sobs with a gentle voice. “It’s all right, Iris. I’m here.”

He said it over and over. Until the words sunk in through her skin and made their way to her heart. She pulled away so she could meet his gaze again.

“I knew you were coming for me,” she said through a sniffle. “I knew it. I trusted.”

His expression softened. He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Of course I came for you. I love you, Iris.”

“I know.” She smiled at him, warmth settling through her body. “I love you too. And it doesn’t scare me anymore.”

He pulled her back into his arms and rested his cheek on her head.

“I’m sorry too, you know,” he said with a sigh. “You know your own mind, and we don’t ever have to get married if you don’t want to. You being with me is enough. You’re enough. ”

She let her eyes fall closed as she sank further into his chest. “Take me home, Rowland.”

“Back to Sybil’s?”

She shook her head. “No, our home. I never want to be apart from you again.”

And because Rowland always gave her what she wanted, he led her to the waiting car Ezra had pulled around. They returned to the house where she thought everything had fallen apart. But their fresh start was still there, waiting for them.