Chapter 6

Rhosyn sank luxuriously into the mattress beneath her. Even though it was lumpy and thin, she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so relaxed. Usually, she jerked awake before dawn out of habit, ready to don her uniform and head out on patrol. Even now, she often shot up, imagining she heard a child's cry, even though she hadn't had any in her charge for several years.

Today, though, she lounged, embracing the heaviness in her limbs that seemed to keep her bound to the bed. It was that feeling of immobilization in her limbs that planted a seed of doubt in Rhosyn's mind. Questions slowly wormed themselves into her sluggish brain: what time was it? Where was she? Why wasn't she jumping up to prepare for a day of work?

Voices, somewhat muffled as if passing through a door, interrupted her thoughts.

"—can't keep her here. Somebody is sure to come looking."

"You know I wouldn't consider the alternative."

Rhosyn's eyes snapped open at that voice. Ansel—the Hood—the tone belonged to both of them, yet neither of them. It didn't have the flirting cadence of Mr. Blakely and wasn't pitched quite as low as the Hood's. Instead, Ansel sounded resigned, but his voice brought memories rushing back all the same.

Rhosyn's gaze focused on an unfamiliar ceiling, after a few slow blinks to clear the blurriness from her vision. Battered gray slats, looking weathered enough Rhosyn was surprised she couldn't see the room above, told her she was no longer in the tent where she had been knocked unconscious.

She made to sit up, only to find that the heaviness of her limbs was not just from her exhaustion, but from a set of ropes binding her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. With a grunt, she struggled against them and succeeded only in rattling the rickety bedframe.

"Shhh." Ansel's voice filtered through the door again. "I think she's awake."

Rhosyn exhaled heavily through her nose in frustration. In her anxiousness to get free, she had given up any chance to inspect her surroundings unnoticed. She stilled, listening for any snippets of the conversation outside that could give her an idea where she was, or how to escape.

"Well…what are you going to do?" the unfamiliar voice asked, low but still just audible.

Silence stretched.

"You can't just leave her in there," it pressed.

"I'm going to…talk to her."

Ansel's companion responded with a snort. "Oh, she definitely seemed like she would respond well to a reasonable conversation."

"I can hear you, you know!" Rhosyn shouted at the ceiling, losing patience. She may as well make something happen if her captors were intent on waffling in the hall.

After a moment of extended stillness, a creak indicated the opening of a door. Rhosyn lifted her head, the crane of her neck an uncomfortable strain with her arms stretched above her. Ansel stood in the doorway, an unmistakable combination of the two men who had haunted her life of late. He was dressed like the Hood, in dark green, practical gear that contrasted greatly with the pageantry of his circus-owner garb. He had forgone the hood though, leaving his expression visible. Although his green eyes and the silver streak in his hair were familiar, his welcoming smile was replaced by a hard look. He stared at Rhosyn like she was a problem he couldn't solve. From his frown, she would have thought he was the one who had woken up tied to a bed.

After a moment of staring, Rhosyn raised her brows in silent question.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Ansel started.

"Funny, these knots seem rather intentional." Rhosyn tugged on her wrists for emphasis.

A furrow formed between Ansel's brows. "You know that isn't what I meant."

"I wouldn't have thought you would need to resort to drugging and kidnapping to lure a woman into your bed." The words popped out before Rhosyn could think better of them or realize that she wasn't in the best situation to be taunting her captor.

Ansel pursed his lips. "It's not my bed."

"Well, if this isn't a social call, would you care to enlighten me on where I am?"

"You know who I am," Ansel pointed out. "You were going to arrest me."

Rhosyn huffed. "Assaulting and kidnapping an officer of the Royal Police is a criminal offense too, in case you didn't know."

With a tired sigh, Ansel took a few steps further into the room, coming up next to the bed. At this angle, Rhosyn could finally relax her neck against the pillow and just turn her head to keep him in her line of sight.

"I am aware, but I couldn't let you stop me. I have some important things to take care of." Ansel didn't meet Rhosyn's eyes, instead reaching out to run a finger along the rope binding her. She watched as he slid one finger between the loop and her wrist, as if testing to see how tight it was. The callused pad of his finger rasped against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. She thought of the dexterous way he twirled a knife and swallowed thickly.

"If you keep me for more than a few hours, people will realize I'm missing." Rhosyn commented to distract herself from Ansel's touch as he repeated the same movement on the other wrist. She tried to curl her fingers to claw at the back of his hand, but he withdrew quickly. "Chief Thorne will notice if I don't show up for my patrol in the morning."

"I'm afraid that ship has left the harbor." Ansel grimaced.

Rhosyn furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? How long have I been here?"

"You've been out for almost twenty-four hours. I was afraid Little John accidentally killed you, although I shouldn't be surprised that you needed the sleep—"

"It's been a whole day?" Rhosyn cut off his conjecture and began squirming anew.

"Honestly, it seems like you should be thanking me for helping you catch up on your rest." Ansel snorted. "With you patrolling the streets during the day and prowling on your own by dark, it's no wonder you haven't been sleeping."

Rhosyn drew back her lips in a snarl at the mention of her private investigations. She certainly wasn't going to be able to find Paul and Olivia while tied up goodness-knows where.

Ansel cocked his head at her. "You clearly don't trust the Police's methods if you are doing your own investigations off the books. I had hoped we would be able to come to some sort of…understanding."

An audible growl worked its way up from the back of Rhosyn's throat. "Don't you dare think I'm a thief and a kidnapper like you. I am a good officer of the Royal Police, because I care about this city, and I will do whatever it takes to protect it from people like you."

Ansel's boots thunked heavily against the floor, a juxtaposition to his normally graceful gait, as he stumbled back like Rhosyn's words hard been physical blows.

Rhosyn settled back on her pillows, partially satisfied that she had managed to verbally wound Ansel. Under the thin layer of vindication lay a hollowness, though. The city's criminals looked at her and saw not somebody who was there to protect her home, but an ally. Sure, she had started life on the wrong side of the law, back when the Royal Police were rife with corruption, but now things were different. Still, a thief—and potentially a kidnapper—looked at her and saw somebody who could be corrupted.

Her glare hardened further and Ansel's expression turned stricken.

"I see you aren't ready to talk. Maybe you'll change your mind after another day or two." With that he backed out of the room. Part of Rhosyn wanted to scream and snarl and tear apart her bonds through strength of will, but she remained quiet as he left the room, not trusting her words. Her lack of judgment had gotten her into this situation, and now she needed to think.

The door thudded closed, signaling that Rhosyn was alone once more. Murmured voices told Rhosyn that Ansel's friend had been waiting for him, but the conversation drifted away before she could catch any more words.

She turned her attention to her bonds and anything in the room that might help her, but came up blank. The grayish wooden slats of the walls stared back at her bleakly, looking like every room for rent in the lower city, and giving her no indication where she might be. Straining her ears, she thought she heard some boisterous laughter and the sounds of general merriment from the floors below.

Perhaps the ground floor held a tavern. It almost reminded her of the sounds one would hear in one of the Lion's communal safehouses, above their gambling parlors—the ones where young Lions who outgrew the Den lived, while Rhosyn lingered behind to keep the next wave safe and fed.

It seemed counterintuitive that Ansel and his partners in crime would want to keep her in a tavern though, where it would be difficult to keep her presence a secret. Rhosyn's brain sparked. Perhaps she was in a gang hideout, and the Hood had already made some dodgy friends who were willing to hold her hostage in exchange for a cut of whatever plot he was undertaking.

She winced as the rough ropes of her bonds chafed her skin, pulling tight in her struggles, even after Ansel had checked that they wouldn't do her permanent harm.

Escaping would be no easy task. If she had been in shackles, she might have been able to use some of her Contessa's lockpicking tricks, but they wouldn't be any use on the expertly tied knots. She wished for Scarlett's shadowy Talent to help her slip free, but she remained Talentless—something she had fervently thanked luck for during the Inquiries.

Rhosyn was left only with herself and her unfortunate tendency to punch first and ask questions after.

She tried to ask herself what Nate or Kristoff would do, but her brain unhelpfully refused to offer anything outside of an amusing image of Kristoff trying to flirt his way out of his predicament. It might not have been such a bad idea if Rhosyn hadn't just spat a slew of insults at her captor.

Despite her best efforts, Rhosyn's attention soon drifted to the soft pillow under her head. It sucked her in with unusual gravity, lulling her into abandoning her plans of escape for the time being. Sleep sang its siren song, more alluring than ever, even after a full day of unconsciousness.

Maybe the drugs Ansel's ally had used on her were inordinately strong. Or maybe, tied down with nobody to punch and no fight to pick, Rhosyn gave into rest.

A door slamming jerked Rhosyn awake hard enough that she nearly gave herself whiplash trying to jump to her feet, before remembering her bonds. As it was, her head snapped forward to see the figure who had made the sudden noise.

A man, so wide and muscular Rhosyn was surprised he fit through the door, stood at the foot of the bed frowning at her. Every thought she had of clever things to say to her captors flew from her mind as she took in the sheer mass of him.

"Where'd the H—Ansel—dig up a lower city bruiser like you?" The words tumbled out of her mouth without a thought.

The man's wide-set features crumpled into a frown. "I'm not from London."

Rhosyn blinked, but her visitor didn't offer any more information. She looked him up and down curiously once more, when her gaze snagged on a cup of water, dwarfed in his meaty paws. Automatically, she tried to swallow around the incredible dryness in her throat, after so much rest and nothing to drink. The sight of water drew unavoidable awareness to the feeling in her mouth of having swallowed a fistful of sand.

"Is that for me?" Rhosyn asked, trying and failing to nod at the water with her neck crooked at such a tight angle.

The man nodded, but stepped forward hesitantly, as if Rhosyn were the one that looked like she crushed boulders with her biceps to pass the time.

Impatient, Rhosyn snapped, "I don't bite."

"The teeth marks on Ansel's hand say otherwise."

Rhosyn grimaced. "I try not to bite the hands that feed me," she corrected.

He resumed his approach, still slowly, and Rhosyn watched him carefully. While the bulk of his frame was clearly composed of muscle, he didn't carry himself with the grace of a fighter. Not to mention, size wasn't everything in a scrap. The hardest fight Rhosyn had ever had was against Scarlett, who didn't even make it to her chin.

Maybe Rhosyn shouldn't try to emulate Contessa or Scarlett's skills to escape.

Maybe she should just be Rhosyn, and let the chips fall where they may.

She kept her eyes trained on the liquid sloshing in the cup as her captor leaned in, trying to appear completely distracted by her thirst. He put his hand behind her head to help her tip forward to drink, the move so polite that Rhosyn nearly felt bad for what she was about to do.

The moment he bent over to tip the water into her mouth, she snapped forward, slamming her forehead into his nose.

The world went white as the man let out a loud curse. A shattering crash split the air as the cup of water fell to the floor, but Rhosyn couldn't feel any satisfaction at landing a solid blow. She was too busy blinking stars from her vision and wondering if it was possible to scramble your brains in your skull.

As her sight cleared, she was incredulous to find that the man looked relatively unfazed, thick fingers wiping the tiniest dribble of blood from his nose and upper lip. Rhosyn had used her face as a weapon more than was strictly advisable in her life, and in her experience that should have shattered her opponent's nose. Instead, she was left reeling, while he only seemed mildly annoyed.

She would have to stop teasing Contessa about breaking her own nose in an ill-advised headbutt after this.

Before Rhosyn or her visitor could do more than take a quick stock of her injuries, the door slammed open once more.

"I see you've taken the liberty of introducing yourself to Little John, Rhosyn," Ansel observed as he took in the chaotic scene before him.

"… don't know why you're insisting on keeping her," the man, who must be Little John, grumbled under his breath.

Ansel ignored his comment and Rhosyn tried to wrap her head around him referring to this giant as "little".

"Go wash your face. I'll handle this," Ansel instructed. A few heavy footsteps and a creak of the door on its hinges, and they were alone in the room.

Rhosyn tried to scowl but was pretty sure she ruined it with eyes still crossed from the blow to her head. She didn't regret it though. If Ansel insisted on holding an officer of the Royal Police captive, she wasn't inclined to make it easy for him.

"I was trying to convince Little John that we could at least untie your feet, but you seem determined to undermine me at every turn." He crossed his arms over his chest as he stared down at her with the look of a man assessing the broken wheel on his carriage.

"Being tied down doesn't induce me to act quiet and polite," Rhosyn countered.

Ansel snorted. "You would have more of a point if you hadn't been asleep for the better part of a day."

"Which is concerning for you, because the longer you hold me here, the worse it will be for you when Chief Throne tracks you down."

"He won't be finding you here."

Ansel's tone held so much surety that a thrill ran up Rhosyn's spine. Maybe she was trapped here, immobilized at the mercy of a man who had become a notorious criminal nearly as fast as Nate had been dubbed "the Beast". Perhaps she should have been more concerned by her predicament, but an oddly familiar fire burned in her gut, the threat of danger igniting in her blood.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Rhosyn threatened with a too-wide grin.

Ansel's brows rose at the challenge in her words. "Oh, because your Royal Police were doing so well at tracking us down before now. And the one officer who came close to discovering us is no longer on the board." Ansel inclined his head towards her. "If they can't track down the missing Talented, they won't be able to find you."

Rhosyn jerked, the excitement in her veins sizzling into anger at Ansel's implication. He didn't just know what had happened to Olivia and Paul—he had them.

"Where are they? Where are Olivia and Paul?" The words came out a hiss between her gritted teeth.

Ansel's posture straightened, as if he wanted to back up a step against the force of Rhosyn's anger, but had trained himself too well to retreat in the face of danger. "I'll tell you, but I need you to show me that I can trust you first."

"And why would I do that?" Rhosyn asked, voice like stone.

"Because I have a feeling you might see things my way, but I need to know you're not going to ruin our plans before I tell you anything."

Her curiosity piqued, but her hands still involuntarily curled into fists, tight enough that nails she had bitten down to the quick still dug into her palms. "If you've hurt one hair on Paul's and Olivia's heads, you'll have more to worry about then spending the rest of your life rotting away in prison."

Ansel's solemn nod indicated that he took her threat seriously. Rhosyn wasn't wholly satisfied, but her inner Lion purred in pride.

"I'm going to untie your legs. If you can prove to me that you won't immediately try to break all my associates' noses, I'll let you see Paul and Olivia."

After a moment's hesitation, Rhosyn nodded. Ansel bent over to untie her feet, although he watched her warily, as if he half expected her to kick him in the face. She didn't blame him, but remained relaxed against the mattress.

As the bonds immobilizing her lower body went slack, Rhosyn flexed her legs and circled her ankles, grimacing at the stiffness in her hips after staying in one position for so long.

To her surprise, Ansel put a hand on her calf, rubbing it to restore any lost circulation. Once again, she noted calluses rasping gently on the sensitive skin just below the inside of her ankle bone. It almost tickled, and Rhosyn had a sudden urge to squirm, despite his touch being focused on such an innocuous area—no, she would not admit to Contessa that there was anything remotely scandalous about ankles, thank you very much. Instead, she thought about the roughness of Ansel's palm, which made more sense now that she had seen his practiced ability with a knife. She snorted quietly at the thought.

Ansel looked at her curiously.

"When I felt your hand the first time, I guessed you were a juggler because of the calluses. I don't know how I didn't recognize the hands of a knife-fighter," she explained. In fact, Ansel's hands felt similarly rough to her own, although missing the hardened skin across the fingers that came from Rhosyn's brass knuckles.

"Who says I can't juggle knives?" Ansel asked, a hint of the charismatic circus performer leaking into his voice. Now though, it didn't seem as exaggerated, less the purposeful airs of a performer than a teasing twinkle in his eyes. Rhosyn wondered if it was genuine.

Realizing his hand had stilled on her calf, Rhosyn yanked it out of his grip. He had dazzled her into overlooking his guilt before, and it wouldn't happen again.

Ignoring the weight of Ansel's gaze, she twisted her legs this way and that to relieve any stiffness. She stretched her spine too, frowning. She felt…great. Certainly not how she would expect to feel after being knocked unconscious and kidnapped.

Her muscles felt pliant but strong, responding quickly to her commands, a far cry from the sluggishness she often battled against at the end of her patrols. She was still thirsty though, and her stomach grumbled in hunger. Although she had ruined her chance at a glass of water a few minutes earlier, she couldn't completely bring herself to regret it.

She continued to work out her stiffness, surreptitiously testing the bonds on her wrists. They remained immovable, clearly expertly tied—perhaps assembling the trapezes and tightropes that held the weight of multiple performers every night conferred you with impressive knot tying skills—but the rickety bedframe creaked with her movements.

Rhosyn smiled sheepishly at Ansel, trying with difficulty to summon the more docile side of her nature. "If I promise not to break your nose, can we try again with a glass of water."

Ansel nodded. "If it's any consolation, I doubt you did any permanent damage to Little John's nose."

"It makes it sound even crueler when you call him ‘Little'," Rhosyn grumped.

"When he was younger, his friends thought it was a clever name for the circus's strong man. They realized it wasn't, but the name had already stuck." Ansel smiled wryly.

Rhosyn blinked at the realization that Ansel hadn't hired John from a gang for intimidation. He was actually a member of the circus.

Ansel took a few steps back in her silence. "I'll be back with water."

As the door hinges creaked, Rhosyn lay still, waiting for the click of the lock to tell her she was alone. The moment Ansel was gone, Rhosyn heaved with her abs, folding her body in half.

She wasn't as flexible as she once was, when she spent so many hours teaching youngsters self-defense and how to stay limber, but she still managed to swing her legs over her head until her feet planted on the wall above the headboard.

Her face twisted into a combination of a grimace and a chuckle, thinking how she had only ever found herself in this position in very different circumstances. Ansel would be greeted by a remarkable view of her ass if he were to open the door at that moment, but she needed the leverage.

She pushed against the wall, thighs straining next to her ears. The ropes around her wrists creaked at the pressure but showed no sign of breaking. Rhosyn paid them no mind—it wasn't them she was trying to break.

As she had hoped, the bed, which had already been squeaky and rickety, gave an almighty groan. Rhosyn gritted her teeth and redoubled her efforts, veins beginning to pop in her neck. Splintering gave way to cracking as the bedframe surrendered to her strength.

The entire headboard ripped free so suddenly that Rhosyn almost hit herself on the head with the heavy plank of wood. Before the bed could collapse completely, she rolled sideways, letting her legs fall so she could land on her feet.

Her boots hit the floor so hard the entire downstairs would have heard, but secrecy had flown out the window with the earsplitting groan of wood giving way. She straightened, head whipping back and forth as she absorbed her predicament. Her hands were still bound to the heavy board she had ripped free, but it would be useful as a makeshift club to use against those who would resist her escape.

The hazy light of the lower city filtered in through one grimy window. Rhosyn hurried over to it and grimaced when she saw a several story drop. Scarlett might have made the jump, but Rhosyn didn't have shadows to break her fall. She wouldn't be able to climb down with her hands hindered.

No matter. Fighting her way out the front door was more her style anyway.

Feet pounded on the stairs outside and Rhosyn turned towards the entrance, ready for the onslaught. The door swung open, but Rhosyn was already charging, lowering her shoulder to bowl over anyone in her way. Ansel jumped out of the way, but Rhosyn barreled past, straight into an unfamiliar man behind him.

They teetered for a moment before tumbling down a narrow flight of stairs. Lightning lanced up Rhosyn's limbs as she banged knees and elbows against the walls and steps. She shoved the sensations aside as they rolled to a stop on a landing, springing to her feet.

The man who fell with her tried to do the same, but a kick from Rhosyn left him howling in pain. She spun, finding the next flight of stairs and bounding down them two at a time.

"Rhosyn!" Ansel shouted behind her, but Rhosyn didn't hesitate.

She leaped down the last few stairs and skidded around a corner, only to be brought up short by the sight before her. A crowded room, filled with young men and women sitting around tables scattered with dice and tankards, stood between her and the exit.

Grimacing, she had the fleeting thought that she regretted being right about being kept in a gang hideout. She didn't have time to consider what gang it might be before the sound of Ansel pounding down the stairs behind her told her she was out of time.

In the few feet of open space between her and the nearest cluster of people, she took a running start before leaping. She landed on the surface of the first table in a crouch. Shouting broke out as she stood, traversing the length of the table in a few long strides.

She jumped to the next table as people leaped into action. A burly man tried to reach for her ankle, but she kicked a tankard as she passed. It caught him full in the face, and he reared back, spluttering.

By the time her long legs carried her to the next table, a hardened-looking woman stood in her path, fists raised in challenge. Her opponent swung, and Rhosyn lifted her arms, headboard still bound between them. She caught the blow on the wood like a shield, and the woman swore as her knuckles met a surface far more solid than flesh.

Rhosyn pressed the advantage, driving her knee up into the woman's lower stomach. She doubled over with a gasp as the breath was punched from her. Rhosyn rolled over her back, kicking out as she did so at another grasping hand.

Another jump and she was just a few tables from the door. Her balance slipped as the sole of her boot landed on a deck of cards. She threw her hands out, but the unfamiliar weight of the headboard overbalanced her.

Her knees hit the tabletop with an eye-watering crack. Another man wasted no time jumping on her. She lashed out, smacking him in the face with her plank of wood. He grunted, but the blow had been off center, and he continued to try to pin her down.

With a cry, Rhosyn raised her hands before bringing the board down over the crown of his head so hard, the already-splintered wood cracked in two. At this, the man stilled, dazed from the impact.

"Rhosyn, wait!" Ansel's voice cut through the crowd, but the blood pounded too intensely in Rhosyn's ears for her to make sense of his words.

Rhosyn wrapped her calf around her opponent's, flipping them over and continuing the roll until she landed with her knee at his neck. She pressed down with enough weight to keep him subdued without strangling him.

Her head whipped left and right, hair falling in sweaty tendrils across her face as she looked for her next opponent—her snarl dared them to approach.

"Rhosyn." Another familiar voice cut through the cacophony of the hideout, but it wasn't Ansel.

"You have to let him go, Rhosyn."

She searched the faces around her for the source of the voice, the fury of the fight rushing from her as if somebody had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. The anxious expressions of those surrounding her swam, blurring together until she found him near the entrance—a child that had somehow grown into a man without her noticing.

"Paul?" Rhosyn asked, her chokehold on the man beneath her slackening. "Paul, I have to…"

She had to save him and Olivia. She had to protect her Lion cubs as she always had, even though they had left the Den.

"Just let him go and we can work it all out," Paul soothed. Rhosyn recognized the rhythmic cadence in his voice that always emerged when he used his Talent. While it had been a godsend when other children in the Den suffered from nightmares, Rhosyn bristled at the realization of what he was doing.

She shook herself, renewing her pressure on her opponent's neck.

"No, please. It's alright." Paul insisted, the Talent overtaking his voice entirely. Try as she might to ignore him, his voice wormed into her skull and laid a warm blanket over her thoughts.

Even as her eyelids grew heavy and she couldn't make out what Paul was saying, only the lulling cadence of his words, she tried to make sense of what was happening.

Paul must be working with Ansel. Maybe he had left his sponsored position with the Gower's for a life of crime after all.

The sting of betrayal cut through the exhaustion now weighing down every limb. She fought against it, trying to blink rapidly and shake her head. A wave of anger rolled over her as her sluggish brain processed the thoughts, almost breaking her free of Paul's mental grasp.

She had given her youth to protecting the Lions and fighting the Inquiries, so children like Paul and Olivia could have the life she had given up by choosing to stay with Nate and Kristoff. All that sacrifice, and here Paul was, throwing in with a criminal despite it all. Maybe being a lower-city urchin wasn't something you could outgrow, no matter how much Rhosyn fought.

With that thought, despair washed away the tide of Rhosyn's rage, leaving her empty and vulnerable to Paul's Talent. The thug beneath her slipped out of her slackening grip, leaving her off balance. She tipped forward, too tired to even put out her hands to break her fall.

Before she could pitch off the table and slam face first into the parquet floor, arms closed around her. Her face pressed into a well-sculpted chest, as the one who had caught her pulled her to him. Rhosyn's nose filled with a smell that was both sweet and spicy, like burnt sugar, undercut with a musk of masculinity.

She was too tired to muster up frustration at Ansel having the audacity to smell so good while ripping her life to shreds. Instead, she used the magically-induced exhaustion as an excuse to take a deep lung-full as she fell into a dreamless sleep.