Chapter 8

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Ansel asked.

Rhosyn stared suspiciously at the single, rickety bedframe before her. "Aren't you worried about your reputation?"

"I'm a young man who is apparently wanted by the Royal Police and owns a circus. I wouldn't think I had much of a reputation to maintain." Ansel shrugged, sitting down on the bed and beginning to pull off his boots as if the matter had been decided. "Besides, aren't you worried about your reputation?"

"That ship has left the harbor," Rhosyn admitted. "But why can't you just tie me to the bed again?"

"You've already proven that isn't enough to hold you, unless we immobilize you completely, and that hardly seems humane. Besides, we only had one free bed, and you have left it unfit to sleep in," Ansel pointed out.

Rhosyn grimaced.

"There are no more beds, and besides, wouldn't you be more comfortable if I only had to bind one hand? I'm a light sleeper, so if you try to escape, I'll wake. None of my performers will have to lose a full night's sleep keeping an eye on you and need the next day off," Ansel explained. "You sharing a bed with me should be the most agreeable solution for everybody."

"I slept just fine when I was tied down," Rhosyn grumbled.

Ansel moved on to removing his waistcoat and unbuttoning his vest. "I noticed, and honestly, I'm mildly concerned. But if you could sleep like that, then certainly my presence shouldn't bother you. I'm told I don't even snore."

Rhosyn swallowed. Truth be told, it shouldn't be an imposition to sleep in the same bed as Ansel. These days, she so rarely got an opportunity to shut her eyes for multiple hours together, and any offer of sleep wasn't one she should turn her nose up at. After years of multiple small, squirmy orphans pushing their way onto her narrow cot with her, she could likely share a bed with the circus's lion without issue.

It was the fact that the bedmate in question was Ansel that gave her pause. He had already wormed his way past her defenses as Mr. Blakely, and Rhosyn had paid the price for her lapse in vigilance. Now, letting her guard down around him, even in the unconsciousness of sleep, seemed unwise.

For the rest of the afternoon, as she spoke with Paul and Olivia under Little John's always watchful eye, Ansel's tale had seeped into her brain. He made it sound so sympathetic—so like something Nate and the Lion's would have done. As the Foxes joked and conversed around her, she had to remind herself on occasion that these were criminals, wanted by the Royal Police, who were no longer corrupt.

She would wait until Olivia and Paul were safely away. Then she would do her duty as an officer of the Royal Police, escape, and turn in Ansel and his whole operation. A few nights in the same bed wouldn't change that.

With determined steps, she walked to the opposite side of the bed and sat.

"That's a shame for you," Rhosyn commented, "as I snore terribly."

She pulled her own boots off, keeping her back to Ansel but still hyper aware of the sounds of rustling cloth as he undressed. Her shoes hit the ground with a startling thump as she dropped them, and Rhosyn paused in the resulting stillness, staring down at her clothes. She would normally undress further for bed, but that level of familiarity seemed ill-advised.

When she and Mr. Blakely had danced, blood had rushed to her cheeks—and much less ladylike places—at the firm grip of his fingers on her waist, despite having engaged in more than polite dancing in her life. In the moments Rhosyn had spent with him as the Hood, his hard chest pressed tightly against her back as they hid in the confines of a carriage, her heart had pounded with a cocktail of adrenaline and something wild, which awakened at the feel of his hand muffling her mouth.

Now, she was about to let her guard down almost completely around Ansel, who was the amalgamation of two men who had led her thoughts down the path of impropriety. Staying anything but fully clothed seemed almost comically unwise.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, you know."

Ansel's voice came from close behind her, startling Rhosyn out of her thoughts where she had been staring at her boots, haphazardly toppled on the floor. They were filthy, she noticed dispassionately.

"Excuse me?" Rhosyn asked as the meaning of his words hit her.

"If you keep yourself under the blankets, I'll see far less than I did that night in the Gower's stables."

Rhosyn turned to glare over her shoulder, finding Ansel staring at her with a single brow arched. The expression, casual as it was, hit her like a challenge.

Rhosyn didn't back down from a challenge. Not from a rival gang in her youth—as evidenced by the slight bend in her nose and her callused knuckles—or from a difficult case facing her as a police officer.

Her fingers drifted towards the button of her pants, slowly but deliberately. Refusing to undress now, when Ansel had already reminded her of her former indecent exposure, would be admitting that she had something to be embarrassed about.

To his credit, Ansel didn't watch her undress, the rustling of the bedding indicating that he was busy sliding under the covers as Rhosyn slid her pants down her legs, kicking them off on top of her boots. The shirt Paul had dug up for her was long enough to cover her hips and the very top of her thighs, but plenty of skin was still on display.

She made a point not to hurry her movements as she turned to slide her bare legs beneath the sheets, despite the goosebumps rising on her thighs. Rhosyn hoped Ansel couldn't see them.

When she settled beneath the covers, she chanced a glance at him, finding him determinedly staring at his own fingernails. Part of her relaxed at the thought of him not trying to disarm her further with his proximity. Another smaller and more rebellious part in the back of her mind—the part of Rhosyn she had been determined to shove into a tiny drawer since she left the Lions—was disappointed that he hadn't looked. After all, how could you win the challenge if your opponent didn't show up to the fight?

The rough sheets rubbed against her bare skin as she slid down, pulling the blankets up to her chest. She tried to focus on getting comfortable, and not the warmth radiating from beside her, when a sudden shift made her freeze.

Rhosyn's breath stole from her lungs and Ansel rolled towards her, propping up on one elbow to lean over her. His unlaced shirt gaped open, giving her an unobstructed view of a broad chest dusted with dark hair, just inches from her nose.

"Wrist," Ansel prompted expectantly.

Rhosyn didn't move, her suddenly addled brain struggling to catch up with his request. When she simply stared, Ansel dangled a looped rope before her face, snapping her back to reality.

She resumed breathing and rolled her eyes all at once.

"You lock me in a room with you and still insist on tying me to the bed? One might think you expect me to cause trouble." Still, she held out her arm.

The scrape of rope against the soft skin of her inner wrist was enough to keep her cognizant of why it was imperative to keep her guard up around Ansel. Sympathetic as his story might be, he was a criminal, and she was a police officer.

Besides, resuming breathing meant being engulfed by his sweet and sharp burnt sugar scent again, and the sooner he leaned away, the sooner she could get back to building a mental wall between them.

When the knot was tied to his satisfaction, he rolled back to his side of the bed, and Rhosyn looked up to survey his handiwork. Once again, the knot was expertly tied, but not so tight as to be dangerous. The other end was affixed to the headboard.

"Aren't you concerned I'll untie myself?" she asked against her better judgment.

"I'd be more concerned with you picking a lock if I had cuffed you, but my trapeze artists' lives depend on me being able to tie a knot that can't be undone with just one hand. And I should wake up if you try to rip another bed in half."

Rhosyn slumped back against her pillow. It wasn't like she would run anyways—not with Paul and Olivia still at risk of being returned to the servitude they ran from so fervently.

"Good night, Rhosyn." Ansel snuffed out the lantern at the side of the bed, and they were plunged into darkness.

As his breathing slowed to a deep, even rhythm, Rhosyn urged herself to stay alert. Tied in the bed of a wanted criminal, she should be a sleepless mess, especially after so much rest in the preceding day. Maybe if she tossed and turned enough, she could keep Ansel awake too, and he would slip up in his resulting exhaustion.

She stared at the ceiling, trying to run over the events of the day with an analytical mind—to find a weakness of Ansel's she could exploit without putting Olivia and Paul in harm's way.

Her bedmate shifted in his sleep, reducing the distance between them to mere inches, the warmth of him seeping through the sheets and the minimal layers of clothing between them. Even now, the faintest burnt sugar scent still permeated her brain, likely worn into the pillow beneath her head.

Her eyelids grew impossibly heavy, and as she closed her eyes, she tried to justify to herself that there wasn't much to be done right now anyway. The last thought that flickered through her brain before sleep took her was that escaping might not be the issue—maybe it would be remembering that she was a hostage at all.

The sheets chilled Rhosyn's bare skin as she woke. She moved to pull the blankets more closely around her and tugged at the forgotten bind around her wrist. The chafe of rope snapped her back to reality and her eyes sprang open. But when she turned her head, the pillow beside her was empty, barely a dent left where Ansel's head had been, making it seem as if she had imagined his presence. It might have been a comforting thought, given how well rested she felt, when she should have spent a sleepless night in the bed of her enemy.

A clearing of a throat drew her attention and her eyes snapped to the corner the noise came from. Scrunched onto a small stool sat Little John, knees nearly coming to his chest as he folded himself onto furniture clearly not built for someone of his stature.

"Do you make a habit of watching people sleep?" she grumbled, voice scratchy.

"I do when Ansel tells me to." Little John seemed to be fixedly staring at some point beside her shoulder as he spoke.

Curious, Rhosyn glanced down and found the cause for his reticence. She had managed to tangle her legs with the blankets, leaving the entirety of their length visible. Even more, her long shirt had ridden up with her unconscious movement, a generous curve of hip on display. She quickly yanked down her clothes to keep herself decent.

Perhaps she should have felt embarrassed at the strong man having had such a view, but she was only mildly amused by his embarrassment.

"You're fine with holding me hostage and leaving me tied to your boss's bed, but a little thigh is where you draw the line?" Rhosyn teased.

"Don't drag me into it. This was all Ansel's idea." Little John folded his arms, meaty biceps threatening the seams of his shirt at the motion.

At that, Rhosyn pictured Ansel getting up before she woke and wondered if she had been in this state when he did. That thought did make her neck and chest prickle with heat, but she grit her teeth against the feeling. This situation was on him. Of course he was trying to goad her.

"Where is Ansel?" Rhosyn asked, feigning casualness as she stretched.

"Busy."

"A man of few words," she observed. "That bodes for a very long day of silent staring as I'm stuck tied to this bed."

"I can untie you, but I'll be keeping an eye on you." Little John stood and shuffled over to the head of the bed where her bonds were anchored. She waited as it took him a surprisingly long time to untie her and grimaced. Ansel hadn't been bluffing about her being well bound.

Finally free, Rhosyn sat and reached to grope around for her pants, still haphazardly tossed over her boots on the floor.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" she asked as she pulled on her clothes and boots.

Little John looked off at the corner as she did, clearly not wanting to openly watch her dress but unwilling to turn his back. He learned quickly.

"It's not my job to entertain you, just make sure you don't escape."

"Great," Rhosyn said cheerily, "then you can just follow as I look around."

With that, she traipsed towards the door, finding it unlocked. Apparently, Ansel considered Little John enough of a guard given his leverage over her.

Stepping into the hallway, she picked a direction at random and began to walk the halls. John followed after like a large, lumbering shadow, but she paid him no mind, poking her head into open doorways as she passed.

As she suspected, nothing noteworthy jumped out at her. Ansel would have kept her locked in the room if there were anything potentially useful for her to find. Still, she started constructing a map of the building in her mind, making mental marks for windows that might make potential exits for when it eventually came time for her to escape.

It would also be useful to know the layout to relay to Chief Thorne when he conducted the inevitable raid, to upend this criminal operation.

Eventually, her search brought her down to the common room where she had fought and later listened to Ansel's tale. It was sparsely populated now though, only a few figures seated at tables bent over in quiet conversation. Two of the inhabitants were familiar.

"Olivia, Paul," she greeted, weaving through tables to where they sat.

They looked up, smiling with something that looked like relief. Perhaps they hadn't trusted that she would keep her word and cooperate as a captive until they were out of Mr. Gower's reach. The thought reached into Rhosyn's chest and twisted her heart.

She avoided grappling with those thoughts by looking at the piles of brightly colored fabric strewn across the table before them.

"What's all this?"

"Costumes," Olivia explained brightly. "I'm doing my best to make myself useful to the circus, to help Ansel."

Indeed, Olivia held a needle in her hand, poking at the eye with bright green thread that matched the cloth in her lap.

"You're sewing?" Rhosyn asked. If Olivia was any good with a needle and a thread, it wasn't due to her time in the Den. Rhosyn was only good at educating youngsters in less ladylike arts.

"I taught myself so I could pick up odd mending jobs for extra money…before the Gower's sponsored us of course." With the needle successfully threaded, Olivia turned to the garment in her lap, which turned out to be some sort of unitard onto which she was appliqueing a dizzying pattern of stars.

To Rhosyn's surprise, Paul picked up the next in the pile of garments—an obscenely fluffy layered skirt—and started using a small knife to pick apart a seam near the waist.

"You too?"

"I learned to be pretty good at undoing and redoing stitches while Olivia was teaching herself," Paul explained. Olivia shot him a look that was half annoyed, half fond at his teasing.

Rhosyn glanced around the room, a thought occurring to her. Little John had sat himself at the adjacent table, arms folded over his chest as he observed Rhosyn's conversation. She wasn't likely to get much investigating done with John hovering over her shoulder every waking moment. Maybe, the investigating could come to her.

"Why don't you teach me?" Rhosyn suggested, slipping into a chair and gesturing to the gaudy assortment of textiles. "It looks like there is plenty of work to go around."

They both blinked at her, as if she had suggested jumping off the top of the clock tower—which she had done before, although they wouldn't know that—and not helping with some mending.

"You…want to sew?" Olivia clarified.

Rhosyn shrugged. "It's not like I'd be allowed to do much else around here, and you know how hard it is for me to sit still. Besides, it's not as if I can really do much harm with a needle and thread."

Several hours later, it turned out Rhosyn had been very wrong. She could do serious damage with the most ladylike of instruments, although mostly to her own fingers. It seemed that years of calluses on her knuckles still didn't protect her from pricking her fingers and nearly bleeding all over Archer's Circus's wonderful wardrobe.

She managed to gouge the needle into her finger savagely and grimaced, using the motion to sneak a glance at where Little John still sat, watching over her. She ducked her head to hide a smile, seeing that a comrade had joined him. They bent together in conversation, John only glancing over at her every thirty seconds or so to make sure she hadn't gotten up to any mischief.

Contessa would be proud, she thought. After all, her friend had been the first one to lament how easily an embroidering lady blended in to the background, making it the perfect cover for eavesdropping—a strategy Contessa had never been able to employ because she couldn't put two stitches together without ripping out her shiny blonde hair.

Despite Rhosyn's personal lack of skill, the strategy did seem to have merit.

"You're stabbing it too hard." Olivia glanced over her shoulder. "It's muslin, it doesn't fight back you know."

"Old habits die hard," Rhosyn grumbled, staring at the plain shirt in her hand. She had been relegated to fixing ripped undergarments, where her sloppy work could be hidden under costumes. "Never mind that though. It's nice of you to help Ansel."

"We like to earn our keep if we can," Paul said.

"I was hoping to get through all of these, but I don't think we will be able to get it done by the end of the week," Olivia huffed in disappointment.

"The end of the week?" Rhosyn prodded, glancing up at John and finding him engaged in conversation still. She surreptitiously scooted around the table under the pretext of having more room to straighten out the garment in her grasp, trying to get into earshot.

"We'll be leaving for the country on Sunday," Olivia explained. "Originally, we were supposed to leave town with the circus on the train at the end of their visit, but given…current circumstances…Ansel found a way to smuggle us out with a contact earlier. He told us first thing this morning."

That drew Rhosyn's focus back to Olivia, her straining ears pausing in their efforts to overhear John and his companion. "Sunday. That's five days from now."

Olivia nodded before her eyes widened, seeming to understand what she'd just conveyed. Rhosyn only had to cooperate with Ansel and the Foxes for five days…and she only had five more days to gather all the information necessary to take them down, once Olivia and Paul were safe from the threat of being returned to the Gower's service.

Olivia opened her mouth as if to say something, but Rhosyn cut her off.

"I'm sure you'll be happy to start a new life in the country." Rhosyn kept her voice as casual as possible, trying to convince Olivia and Paul not to worry about what happened once they were out of the way.

"I am! We're planning on going to Sussex where…"

Olivia's words faded into the background of Rhosyn's thoughts as she described how she was looking forward to living somewhere where the air wasn't always heavy with factory smoke and she might have room to start a small garden.

Rhosyn also tried not to dwell on her plans for escape in five days time either. Instead, she let her senses of the room broaden as Olivia and Paul planned excitedly for the future. More Foxes had entered the safehouse as the day wore on, and conversations grew in volume as they seemed to forget Rhosyn was there.

"… Worthingtons should be the next mark."

A snippet from the table at which Little John sat grabbed her attention. She cocked her head but kept her eyes down on the needle and thread in her lap.

"His investment in the mines made out well recently. He doesn't need all that wealth," John grumbled.

"And if we do hit the Gowers again, we'll need the cash."

Rhosyn frowned at her stitches, and not just because she had managed to stab herself hard enough to get a drop of blood on her project. Her concern was twofold—not only were the Foxes planning another robbery, but they were planning to hit the Gowers house again. Try as she might, she couldn't puzzle out why they might risk returning to terrorize the same family again and again, even if they did overwork their servants.

"Ansel went to—"

A loud cheering from the far side of the room cut off Little John's companion. Rhosyn suppressed an internal groan as she looked up towards the source of the commotion.

Standing on the table was a young woman, about the same age Rhosyn had been when she left the Lions, grinning as she juggled a no fewer than seven shining objects. Rhosyn's eyes widened as she focused her gaze enough to recognize the objects as glass beer mugs. The juggler didn't seem concerned, barely looking at the flying mugs as her fingers scarcely touched the twirling handles before spinning the glasses into the air once more.

The volume of the crowd crescendoed as a spectator tossed another glass into the fray. The juggler's grin only widened as she caught it without hesitation, seaming it into her rhythm without faltering.

"Ey, knock it off, Tory," Little John shouted without menace. "I know you won't break anything, but it's not kind to our host's nerves."

Indeed, the barkeep grabbed the counter he stood behind with white knuckles, eyes wide with nervous incredulity. He had likely expected brawls when he let a gang overrun his bar—probably for a healthy cut of their scores—but very little could prepare him or Rhosyn for the sights of Archer's Circus.

The juggler stopped her rhythmic tosses, instead catching the glasses one by one and stacking them neatly in her hands. She shot a sheepish glance at the bartender and hopped down off the table as the crowd dispersed.

Unfortunately, her performance had decidedly ended Little John's conversation as his companion stood and went to speak with somebody else.

"I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the way these performers use their Talents so freely," Olivia sighed, her tone wistful.

"I don't know, you might be able to put on an impressive fire breathing show with your Talent," Rhosyn pointed out.

"Maybe." Olivia shrugged. "But even at the Gower's, I felt like I had to look over my shoulder every time I lit a fire in the hearth. I suppose it would be different if I had learned to hide my Talent in plain sight like they have, though."

Rhosyn considered as Paul and Olivia continued to discuss the Talents they had seen in the Circus—the lion tamer who could understand the creature's roars as if they were words and the magician whose tricks nobody had ever figured out, likely because he could actually make small objects pop in and out of existence.

The thoughts of a youth so similar, yet so different from her own in the gangs, where Talents were both a death sentence and a source of power, twirled in her head for the remainder of the day. While she mulled things over, she kept a sharp ear out for any gossip that drifted within ear shot, but she learned nothing more interesting than the rumor that the contortionist had been found in the sword swallower's bed—apparently both showing off their skills.

Contrary to most gang haunts, the crowds of Foxes thinned as the day wore into evening, likely headed off for a night of entertaining revelers. By the time a familiar figure wearing a top hat graced the doorway, Olivia was dozing lightly in her seat and Rhosyn was feigning heaviness in her own eyelids, seeing if Little John would take it as an opportunity to lift his watchful eye.

Ansel sighed as he entered the room, sweeping off his hat and running his hand through his hair. The stiff, pushed back style he wore during the day came undone, falling across his forehead, nearly brushing his eyes.

"You can head off, Little John." He nodded to his friend as he took in the room. "I'll watch things around here while you go to the Circus."

John nodded, pushing to his feet and stretching, several joints popping audibly as he coaxed movement back into his bones.

"He shouldn't be too tired. I went easy on him today," Rhosyn quipped.

"That doesn't mean I won't keep just as close of an eye on you tomorrow." John pointed a meaty finger at her as he tromped past. Rhosyn shot him her most winning smile in return.

"It looks like I'm the tired one today then," Ansel admitted. "And that means it's time for bed for both of us, even if you're still full of energy."

Olivia, who had woken at some point during the conversation, looked momentarily shocked by his phrasing, but Rhosyn waved off her concern.

"Mr. Blakely here is a perfect gentlemen. Aside from being a lying, cheating gangster, that is," Rhosyn assured brightly.

With that, she stood and walked towards the stairs, leaving Ansel to trail behind her. It wasn't until they were back in the room they had shared last night that Ansel spoke.

"I distinctly remember that you are the one who cheats. In fact, I'm pretty sure that is how we found ourselves in this predicament."

Rhosyn flopped down on the bed, preparing to take her boots off. In a roundabout sort of way, Ansel was right. If she hadn't found the playing card in his pocket, it might have taken her an embarrassingly long time to put together who the Hood was.

"I don't have many opportunities to hustle people anymore. I have to practice when I have the chance, or I might get rusty," Rhosyn explained through a yawn.

Ansel paused in undoing his cufflinks. He cocked his head. "You used to cheat at cards a lot? Not a pastime I would expect of an upstanding officer of the Royal Police."

Rhosyn's fingers stuttered over the laces of her boots, somehow knotting them tighter when she meant to untangle them. The reference to her past had tumbled out of her unbidden. A day in a gang haunt, and it slipped off her tongue like second nature—like it had only taken one day to forget that her past was behind her and she now stood firmly on the right side of the law. Or at least tried to.

"Who doesn't have a few dalliances in their youth?" Rhosyn grasped her composure back, shrugging off his question.

Ansel let out a hmph that didn't sound satisfied with her answer, but didn't push her further on it.

"The circus business is harder work than I expected," Rhosyn said, changing the subject. "You were gone by the time the sun rose and back after dark. It certainly keeps you busy."

"You know I do more than own a circus," Ansel pointed out. "But if you think I'm going to tell you what else I was doing today, then I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

As he spoke, he had rolled up his sleeves and his forearms flexed as he reached up to tug at his cravat. In the dim lamplight of the room, the shadows cast by the veins there deepened, and Rhosyn had to force her gaze away, mouth traitorously dry.

"Asking about each other's day seems to be the bare minimum of polite for two people about to share a bed," Rhosyn retorted. As she did, she moved to unbutton her pants. She shouldn't be flustered by Ansel undressing after last night, but if she was, she wouldn't pass up the opportunity to disarm him in return.

As she stood to push the trousers down her thighs, she peeked out of the corner of her eye at him, and found him not looking, busy with the buttons on his shirt. She couldn't decide whether to be impressed or frustrated that a gang leader boasted such a robust sense of honor.

With a stifled sigh, Rhosyn slid into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She tried not to listen to the rustle of fabric as Ansel continued to undress. The bed dipped as he slid into his side, and she contained a jump as bare skin brushed her shoulder. She turned her head to find that he had chosen to forgo a shirt tonight.

Quickly, she snapped her gaze back to the ceiling above her, but it was no good. Ansel's chest dominated her vision again as he leaned over her to grab the rope attached to the headboard.

Rhosyn pushed her head back into the pillow as he bound her wrist to the bedpost, as if the millimeters of distance it put between her nose and his sternum could stop her from seeing the thatch of hair dusted there and wondering if it would be soft to rub her face on. The little space the motion afforded her certainly did nothing to dampen the sweet and spicy smell of burnt sugar that clung to his skin. At this proximity, the scent permeating her senses, it struck Rhosyn as familiar—it was the aroma of toasted nuts and spun sugar at the circus. As if Ansel had spent so much time among the traveling performers, that the essence of Archer's Circus had gotten under his skin.

Ansel paused in tying his knot, glancing down at Rhosyn's face, attention ostensibly grabbed by her rigid posture.

Seeing her staring fixedly at the divot between his pecs, he chuckled, the noise rumbling from his chest so close that Rhosyn felt the vibrations.

"Sorry, I'll be quick so as not to offend your ladylike sensibilities."

Rhosyn held perfectly still as Ansel finished binding her wrist for the night. Then, he rolled back to his side and snuffed the single lamp on his side of the bed. The incomplete darkness of the lower city fell—the darkest it could get in the neighborhood where the streets never slept and the light of the tavern perpetually creeped under the door as patrons were served until the wee hours of the morning.

It was a soft sort of quiet, and the familiarity of it combined with the sugary spice still lingering on the back of Rhosyn's tongue stirred something in her.

"I'm not a lady. Never was and never will be." The words spilled out of her without permission. She paused, wondering if she should stop but finding that she didn't want to. "I'm just like you."

"A police officer like a gangster?" Ansel didn't sound derisive, but instead curious. As if he were really trying to understand Rhosyn. For some reason it hurt her chest.

"I wasn't always with the Royal Police. Before the…" Rhosyn hesitated but the words banged against her ribs, begging to be let out of where they were caged in her chest. In the quiet of the night, she was surprised Ansel couldn't hear them, even though she hadn't spoken yet. "During the Inquiries, I ran with the Lions. And not just that, I was one of their leaders."

Ansel shifted slightly, the rustling of sheets loud as a gunshot in the pregnant silence.

"That's quite a change of heart," he eventually said, but his tone didn't hold judgment.

"It didn't feel like it at the time." Rhosyn admitted—and it wasn't a lie. The decision to help Chief Thorne, when he so desperately needed officers he could trust, was a familiar one. She turned her back on her criminal past in an instant, just as she had turned away from her hopes of a simpler future when she stayed with the Lions to help Nate and Kristoff. She had joined a gang to protect those with Talents when she had none herself, and she had given up the life she had built with the Lions to protect the city in the aftermath of the Inquiries.

"It hasn't been hard…not until now," Rhosyn murmured at the ceiling. "Not until I spent time among you and the Foxes."

"And what is it now?" Ansel prompted, his voice a little more than a whisper.

"Like being homesick."

The admission hung in the air, soft and palpable. It felt like a peace offering.

Fabric rustled again, and so lightly that Rhosyn might have imagined it if she hadn't been conscious of every slight movement, knuckles brushed against the bare skin of Rhosyn's thigh. The touch was both intimate and innocent, and Rhosyn allowed it. It seemed that Ansel had accepted her offering, but didn't push for more, knowing this could only be a temporary truce. They may understand each other, but it didn't change the truth of their situation.

Hair tickled Rhosyn's nose, consciousness slowly filling her, just as air filled her lungs. But she was so comfortable, and she wasn't ready to wake yet. Pushing away awareness, she instead burrowed deeper into the solid warmth beneath her, filling her lungs with another deep sigh that tasted of spicy sweetness.

As she nuzzled her nose further into the ticklish hair, she realized that for once it was not her own rebellious curls having fallen into her face at night, but much smoother and shorter. Her eyelashes fluttered, but she forced herself to keep them closed, as the realization that she cuddled into a decidedly masculine body took hold. She didn't move as she took stock of the situation.

Somehow, she had ended up burrowed into the crook of Ansel's neck, the hair at his nape stirring with her every breath. He lay on his back, one of her legs slung across his hips, her front molded tightly to his side.

What stole her attention more than the muscular press of his side into her chest, or the way her angle positioned one of his thighs between hers, was the heavy arm laid across her own shoulders. The hand belonging to the arm came to rest on her head, fingers burrowed into her hair at the crown of her head. In response to her small movements, the fingers began to move, infinitesimally massaging into her scalp.

A breath stuttered out of Rhosyn at the tingles the touch sent down her spine. Unconsciously, she arched back into the touch, and the fingers moved again, rubbing in the tiniest of circles and pulling lightly at the hair at the nape of her neck. Her lashes fluttered as her eyes rolled back in her head.

Having Ansel play with her hair shouldn't feel absolutely sinful, but here she was one breath away from moaning.

A rustle of sheets broke the quiet of early morning as Ansel turned his head on the pillow, and a small part of Rhosyn cringed to know that he was awake and aware, not just unconsciously responding to her proximity. A much larger part of her reveled in the feel of his lips moving against the crown of her head as he murmured her name.

"Rhosyn." His voice was rough from sleep, rumbling in his chest far more than his normal smooth tone. The word was both a question and a warning—and just as delicious as the fingers that hadn't quite stopped moving in her hair.

Her only response was to nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck. If she responded, she would have to face some semblance of reality, instead of enjoying the toe-curling feel of his nails now lightly raking against her scalp. The slight scratch sent warmth dripping down her spine to pool in her core.

She shifted her hips unconsciously at the sensation, and she discovered the delicious friction of Ansel's thigh pressed between her own. Rhosyn shifted her hips again, more purposefully this time. Now, her core was pressed firmly to him, growing so warm that she was sure he could feel the heat of it through her long shirt.

Ansel let out a strangled grunt as she circled her hips infinitesimally once more. His fingers tightened in her hair, and the response drew attention to a growing hardness against her thigh.

She moved again, this time letting her thigh move as she ground against him.

"Rhosyn." He only said the same single word as earlier, but this time it was a command—to stop or keep going, she couldn't be sure.

She shivered in response to his tone. In this haze of early morning pleasure, still laced with the sense of unreality from last night, she could think of little beyond wanting this feeling to continue—to deepen.

Rhosyn wanted to touch him.

She reached for him, only to have her shoulder jerked back as rope grew taught around her wrist. Her bonds did more than hold her back from Ansel. They snapped her back to reality, and immediately she tensed.

She wrenched herself away from his gentle grasp, rolling onto her back on the side of the bed where she was tied. Ansel blinked at her in surprise before his gaze trailed to her wrist. The openness of early awakening in his eyes shuttered at the sight. The tangible evidence of their animosity sobered them both.

While at a temporary truce, in five days Rhosyn would break free of these bonds and be his enemy once more.

Without a word, Ansel stood from the bed and pulled on his clothes with hurried efficiency. He walked out the door with boots in hand, not even bothering to put them on before leaving.

If Rhosyn's mind hadn't been reeling at their sudden sobriety, she might have tried to untie herself. As it was, Little John entered before she could make any moves towards freedom. She exhaled heavily, facing down another day captured in the Foxes's den.

Rhosyn repositioned herself in her chair for the tenth time in the last five minutes, and Olivia eyed her sympathetically.

"If I have to sit still for another hour, I'll rip my hair out." Rhosyn set down her pitiful attempt at sewing and admitted defeat.

After spending the morning and the first part of the afternoon revisiting her eavesdropping strategy from earlier to no avail, she was ready to throw in the towel. Rhosyn had never been suited for long stakeouts, preferring to face her enemies out in the open.

"I think that might be challenging, based on how thick it seems."

Rhosyn twisted in her seat to find Ansel standing at the bottom of the stairs. She wasn't entirely sure how he got there, given that she hadn't seen him come back to the Foxes's haunt after leaving this morning, even though it seemed that you had to cross through the common area to get from the main entrance to the stairs in the back.

"At least it would give me something to do besides sewing," Rhosyn griped at him as he strolled over to look over their handiwork.

He picked up one of her poorly darned undershirts and inspected it. "You might be better at it too."

Rhosyn wrinkled her nose at the jab, but didn't deny it.

"Are you sure this isn't your underhanded way of trying to put Archer's Circus out of business—to have everybody's costumes fall apart on stage until we are shut down for indecency?"

"It's not my fault you left me with nothing else to do," Rhosyn pointed out.

"And what exactly would you like to be doing?"

Rhosyn shrugged. "Punching something, probably."

"I don't think any of my men who were on the receiving end of your fists would be lining up to do it again."

Rhosyn cocked her head at him, considering. Her eyes caught on the biceps she had pillowed her head on just hours ago and her face heated. Now she really wanted to punch something.

"What about you?" she goaded.

"Me?"

"Yes. How do you feel about being on the receiving end of my fists?" She raised an eyebrow in challenge. If she couldn't work out her frustrations with Ansel on his thigh in the quiet of his bedroom, then her fists would have to do the job.

"Oh, I'm not too scared of them." Ansel shrugged. "Every time I've faced off against you, I seemed to get the upper hand."

Rhosyn bristled. "You think you won those fights? You cheated!"

"Once again, it's you who proved to be the cheater."

Rhosyn stood and her nostrils flared. In reaction to her movement, Little John rose from his table, as if he expected to have to restrain her from leaping across the table at Ansel.

"All I'm hearing is that you're afraid to fight me without all your tricks."

"Nothing is against the rules in a lower city brawl," Ansel retorted.

She bared her teeth at the words and the conflict that rose in her mind at his statement. After her time with the Lions, she knew there was no such thing as fighting dirty if it meant you could best your opponent. The conditioning of the police force continually urged her to pull her punches. In one sentence, Ansel had prodded at the divide in her soul that became wider with every passing moment with the Foxes.

"If I stopped fighting by the rules, you wouldn't be able to get the upper hand," Rhosyn challenged.

"Why don't we test that out?"

Little John stepped closer, the look of consternation on his face echoed by Olivia and Paul. "I don't think that's a good idea, boss."

Ansel shrugged off his concern. "I'm the one who goaded her. If it's inevitable Rhosyn is going to punch something, then I'd prefer to have myself being on the receiving end of her fists than you."

Rhosyn raised her brows. "Nothing like a little sparring to combat the monotony of being held hostage." Her palms itched.

Ansel jerked his head towards the bar. "We have a storeroom we cleared out to use for training. It should do nicely."

He led the way behind the bar and Little John moved to follow. Ansel stopped him with an outstretched arm. "We'll be fine."

John opened his mouth as if to argue, but clearly thought better of it from the firmness in Ansel's tone.

An edge of curiosity broke through the simmering anticipation of a fight under Rhosyn's skin. She trailed him through a small door into a blank room. He closed it behind them as she took in the space.

A pang of something bittersweet echoed beneath Rhosyn's breastbone. The middle of the room was clear, with barrels and crates pushed haphazardly against the walls to make the most room for all manner of activities.

It looked just like the back room at the old Den where Rhosyn had trained young Lions in self-defense.

Rhosyn turned to consider Ansel as he barred the door behind him.

"I wanted some privacy," he admitted. "And if you do manage to knock me out, anything I can do to slow down the mayhem you might cause is a good thing."

She cracked her knuckles, the sound loud in the empty room. "I should probably ask you why you agreed to this, but I don't want to talk you out of it."

"I'm glad you're not asking."

Before Rhosyn could ponder the meaning of his words, he lunged.

Reflexes that remained quiet, yet awake, grabbed at her muscles, letting her sidestep his attack just in time. As he swung past her, she threw out her elbow, catching him in the flank.

He let out a pained grunt but didn't falter, swinging around and trying to take her feet out from under her with a swing of his leg. With a jump, she managed to avoid the blow to her ankles, but it threw her off balance.

Ansel pushed the advantage, coming at her with a flurry of blows. Rhosyn stumbled back for only a second before catching his punches on her forearms. The dull pain of what she knew would be bruises grounded her. At the same time, adrenaline surged in her veins.

It was a heady feeling. Like the one of drinking too much whiskey without the loss of clarity. Like the giddy sensation of Ansel's hand in her hair.

The thought of their morning encounter threw fuel on the fire in her chest. Ansel had no right to make her feel such things, yet part of her yearned for more.

With a snarl, she ducked under his next right hook and drove her shoulder up into his stomach. The momentum knocked him back.

For a moment, the pair toppled through the air, seemingly weightless. Then, Rhosyn's teeth rattled in her skull as they hit the ground.

Ansel brought his knees up as he went down, driving them into Rhosyn's stomach and trying to kick her off. Her vision swam as her breath exploded out of her, but she bore down. She wasn't much taller than him, but it was enough to allow her to pin him.

He struggled for a moment longer before giving in. With a tap on her forearm, currently braced across his throat, he signaled his defeat. For a second, Rhosyn considered taking advantage of the situation and knocking him out with a swift blow to the jaw.

He might have deserved it, for the brewing torment within her that he kept prodding into a more fervent simmer.

Instead, she backed off, sitting back on her heels.

After landing a few good blows, her tender pride at being held hostage was placated. Still, it didn't feel completely satisfied, as if she were craving some other sort of release.

"Just as fierce as I remembered," Ansel said, seemingly to himself as he sat up. The comment drew Rhosyn from her thoughts. His hand went to his ribs as he moved, likely bruised from the force of Rhosyn's ramming shoulder.

"Fierce, eh?" Rhosyn prompted.

Ansel held up his other hand to reveal a bandage around his ring finger she hadn't noticed before. "You have tried to bite me twice. Once you succeeded, and nearly took my finger off."

"Just be happy I didn't manage to get my teeth around you in the Gower's carriage too."

"Oh, I am." Ansel admitted. "I'm all for a bit of biting between friends, but that wasn't the time or place for it."

Rhosyn swallowed thickly, unsure whether Ansel's return to flirting was a sign that the tension from their early morning encounter was dissipating, or if he was trying to use it as a weapon against her.

"Why were you there that night?" Rhosyn asked to change the subject. "You had already done your job to get Olivia and Paul away."

He considered her, both still sprawled on the dusty floor, slightly sweaty and panting. It wasn't the posture of a hostage and her captor—or a police officer and a gang leader, for that matter. But something about it made such questions feel less like a game for information and more like a real conversation.

Ansel must have felt the same, because he answered, despite having no obligation to.

"Something…didn't seem right," he admitted. "When we got Olivia and Paul back to the safehouse that night, they were so tired they seemed almost ill. They've been adamant that they weren't physically mistreated, but the way they seemed positively dazed put my hair on end."

Rhosyn grit her teeth. It ached in her bones to know that young Lions had come to be in such a state—even after everything Nate had done for them. She had been there that very night and thought Paul seemed off, but it wasn't her who had been able to help him and his sister.

"I'm not sure what I expected to find," Ansel continued. "Maybe I was looking for evidence that they mistreated their staff, to explain why Olivia and Paul barely seemed to be able to talk about their time there, other than to be glad they were out. But that conversation we overheard between Mr. Gower and that other man, Hamish…"

Rhosyn pondered, remembering the cryptic words of the stolen conversation she had barely had time to process, given that she and Ansel found themselves in a tussle moments later.

"He seemed desperate to have Paul and Olivia return," she remembered.

"I still haven't been able to figure out his urgency. But I know that it doesn't feel right in my stomach. Something about the way he collects Talented servants doesn't sit right with me."

Rhosyn frowned. Mr. Gower's tone when he had demanded Paul and Olivia be returned—and seemingly to the groom of all people—was certainly sinister. It didn't give her any compelling evidence as to his intentions. Perhaps he was just a rich, pompous prick who was unused to being denied anything.

"One overheard conversation is hardly evidence of wrongdoing," she pointed out.

"I'll leave the evidence gathering to the police." Ansel inclined his head towards her. "I know when to trust my gut, and it was right."

Rhosyn grimaced. Perhaps she should be more ashamed that she had broken into the Gower's property without a warrant that night, only to come away without evidence, but more of an instinctual notion that they were up to no good. Instead of focusing on that, she asked, "You were right?"

"I've spent the few days arranging chance meetings with most of the Gower's Talented staff out in the city and casually offering the Foxes's…ahem…services. None of them have said anything outright against the Gowers, but they've all accepted our help."

"That's why you're planning to hit them again." Rhosyn thought out loud about her overheard conversation with Little John and his associate yesterday.

Ansel's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "And how would you have known what we've been planning?"

"Don't blame Little John." Rhosyn smiled wryly. "He thought I was too busy stabbing myself with a needle to eavesdrop."

He ran a hand tiredly through his hair. "We might call ourselves the Foxes, but I had a feeling keeping you here would be like letting a fox into the hen house. May I ask what else you overheard?"

"You may, but I don't have to answer."

"You're my hostage right now. Is it wise to deny me?" Ansel asked.

Rhosyn gestured between them. "Do you normally talk to your hostages like this? I don't think you're very good at it then."

In truth, trying to beat the sense out of each other had gone a long way to level the playing field between them. As if the fight had temporarily funneled the animosity out of them and given them the ability to speak rationally for once.

"Maybe I don't want you to be my hostage anymore," Ansel murmured, looking down at his hands, which had come to lay in his lap during the conversation.

"That doesn't seem very wise. If you let me go, I might just tell Chief Thorne about your plans to rob the Worthingtons."

Ansel glanced up through his lashes. "You know they don't need all that wealth."

"And you do?"

"Not me." Ansel shook his head. "But getting all the Talented out of the city is expensive. They need funds to help them start new lives, and getting the Gower's servants out will take a substantial bribe."

Rhosyn's interest piqued. "A bribe? Why would you ever admit that to me."

"Because…" Ansel paused, leaning back on his hands. "Because last night you gave me hope that you might understand after all. You might be an officer of the Royal Police, but what you told me makes me think it isn't because you believe in the letter of the law."

Rhosyn's voice stuck in her throat. She had no good retort to that, even as she might wish to deny it—to insist she was loyal to Chief Thorne when the police had already suffered so much corruption.

"I might understand," she eventually choked out instead.

Ansel nodded, as if he saw how difficult of a concession she had made. "To help the Talented truly be free of their sponsorships, we need to destroy the documents binding them to their sponsors. If we don't, their sponsors have the legal right to find them and force them back into service. Without that evidence, though, they have no legal hold over their Talented servants."

"Which is why you raided Contessa's office," Rhosyn said.

"Contessa? You're on a first name basis with the King's advisor?" Ansel seemed taken aback.

"She is married to Nathanial Woodrow." Rhosyn shot him a pointed look, hoping not to have to spell out her connection.

Realization dawned. "The Beast." He nodded.

"Don't call him that, but yes."

Ansel snorted. "I saw him at that party. He's no less a Beast now than his reputation painted him as when he was the leader of the Lions. It's what makes him such an effective bodyguard. He just has the backing of a king now."

Rhosyn frowned and tucked that line of thought away to examine later—that Nate was both the King's protector and the same headstrong fighter she had always looked up to as a brother.

"So, you got the sponsorship papers from Contessa's office?" Rhosyn prompted.

Ansel sighed heavily. "Yes and no. We got the batch that had already been completed, but after that, the next set was put in a safe. Unfortunately, many of the Gowers' current staff's papers are in that set. We tried to steal them too, but we haven't been able to crack the safe. Thus, we need the money to bribe a guard to take them for us. It will be a hefty sum."

At the mention of cracking a safe, a thought dawned on Rhosyn, accompanied by a memory. For an instant she was back on a liberation mission with Nate and Kristoff. A small girl tugged against her hand, refusing to leave and pointing a dirt smudged hand at a safe in the corner of the office they slept in, laying on the floor and locked in by the factory foreman. Even now, Rhosyn could feel the light thuds of tumblers falling into place under her fingers as she cracked the safe, the subtle clicking in her ear signaling her success as she pressed the side of her face to the cold metal. Inside she had found a delicate gold necklace—the only memento the girl had of her executed mother, taken from her by the factory's foreman.

From that day until she grew out of the Den, the girl had never taken that necklace off.

Stealing sponsorship papers so more Talented could be free wouldn't be that different.

"What if you didn't have to bribe the guards?" Rhosyn asked.

"We don't have anybody good enough at lock picking to get into that safe. And unfortunately, our magician's Talent doesn't work unless he's seen the object in question, so he can't blink the papers of the safe."

Ansel's words nearly distracted Rhosyn from what she was about to offer—against her better judgment—but she stayed with the task at hand.

"But if you did, you wouldn't have to rob the Worthingtons?"

Ansel looked at her curiously. "We'd have to stretch the circus's earnings between the Gowers' servants to give them a fresh start, but it could be done."

Rhosyn took a deep breath, stealing herself.

"I can crack the safe."

Ansel blinked once. Twice.

Silence stretched through the room, broken only by the noises from the common room outside.

"You can?"

Rhosyn released a stolen breath, somehow relieved that his question wasn't why she would do such a thing. "I'm not just the best pickpocket in London. I happen to also be the second best lockpick."

"And who would the first be?" Ansel asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know." Rhosyn's own past was hers to divulge to Ansel, even if it was ill advised. But she wasn't about to admit to Ansel that she had picked up her best safe-cracking tips from the King's closest advisor.

To his credit, Ansel didn't push her. Apparently, he was wise enough not to ask imprudent questions when somebody who was supposed to be his enemy offered their aid.

"Let's say I take you up on this. I'm not just going to let you waltz out of here and up to the palace. I have no guarantee you wouldn't just announce yourself and tell them of our plans."

"Well, that's good, because you know I'm terrible at waltzing." The quip was out of Rhosyn's mouth before she could remind herself this was a serious negotiation. Planning like this felt far too familiar. Despite being sprawled across a dusty floor, she could almost imagine she was sitting at Nate's desk, her boots up on the polished surface no matter how much he frowned, planning another liberation mission.

To her relief, Ansel chuckled, and Rhosyn found a smile toying with the corners of her mouth.

"I'm not going to let you walk out of here alone either."

"You have to let me out if I'm going to crack the safe. And I'm not doing it while Little John looks on." Rhosyn searched for the right words, wishing for Contessa's skill with a diplomatic turn of phrase. "I'm sure you'll understand that I'd appreciate discretion with the Foxes on this."

She shied away from the thought of betraying Chief Thorne in a way that had to be hidden, but she couldn't risk one of the Foxes having a loose tongue and telling somebody that an officer of the Royal Police had helped them burgle the palace. After all, once Paul and Olivia were gone, she would have to go back to strictly legal activities.

Thankfully, Ansel understood her meaning without further explanation. "Then I'll come with you."

Rhosyn hesitated. Perhaps she should worry about what Ansel would do with the knowledge of the crime she was offering to commit for him. After all, it would make good blackmail material. But his words from when he first confronted her, tied to the bed upstairs, came back to her.

Perhaps we can come to some sort of understanding.

Maybe they would after all.

"Alright. We'll do it together," she agreed.

Ansel stood and stretched out a hand to help her up as well. She took it, and he hauled her to her feet, leaving her standing nearly chest to chest with him. Maybe she should back away, but he didn't let go of her hand immediately, leaving them standing mere inches apart in the middle of the room.

Rhosyn's breath stuttered as he smiled crookedly, simultaneously wearing the charm of Mr. Blakely and the promise of mischief of the Hood.

"Well," he said, "this should be fun."