Her Dark Knight's Redemption

This was personal. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You keep asking me questions...thief.’

She couldn’t have heard him correctly. Surely this wasn’t about something so trivial as the baker. ‘Were those your loaves of bread?’

‘Parents. Answer me.’

She shook her head. ‘No parents. Is this over the bread? Did you watch me take it?’

‘I watched you being caught.’

Relief that he hadn’t seen Gabriel steal gave her courage to ask more questions. ‘And that had you bring me here.’

‘You know what would have happened to you if that watch guard took you away?’

‘Do I look a fool?’

‘You’re the one caught for mere bread—perhaps you didn’t know the consequences.’

Living the way she had all her life, she always knew the consequences. ‘It’s not mere bread when it means life and death.’

‘Ah, yes, the important question. I don’t want your death.’

‘Rape, then.’

A curl to his lips as if she insulted him.

‘I’m a woman. You’re a man. Why else did you force me here?’

‘Not. That.’

His answer was short, curt, the tone as if he found her question distasteful.

Aliette refused to be embarrassed. She was poor, street born and bred, her clothes barely serviceable. But some of it she purposefully created. She needed to smell, to grind dirt into her skin and clothes to deflect leers and lust. Life would have been easier if she was a boy. When she’d become old enough she’d thought to disguise herself, but by then she was all too easily recognised. So a girl, now a woman, she remained.

She should be pleased her filthy appearance worked as it had all her life. He didn’t want her death, or her body, and he purposefully saved her from gaol and losing her hand.

‘In truth, what—?’ he began to ask.

‘Why are you holding the child?’ she interrupted.

Chapter Six (#u72a54595-01f8-5158-94d4-7601fb1ba97c)

He looked perplexed. ‘Because I have not put her down.’

A girl. Aliette had no reason to trust he wouldn’t harm her, but he had held his hand so far and it was enough for her to truly pay attention to the man before her...and the child. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

Alarm crossed his strong features. ‘Nothing.’

‘She’s too quiet. Is she asleep?’

He looked down at her. ‘Her eyes are at half-mast.’

Awake, but listless. ‘Is she with fever? Sick? Has she spit up?’

‘I don’t—’

She took a step forward and raised her arms. ‘Give me that child.’

‘No.’

He said the single word so evenly and decisively it was as a sword striking down.

It stopped her short, her arms outstretched, her stepping foot braced in the air.

‘You may not take her,’ he said.

Where were her finely honed survival instincts? This was not a man to be ordered about. She lowered her arms and foot and stepped back. ‘I only meant—’

‘Save me from well meaning intentions,’ he said sardonically. ‘That’s not why you’re here.’

She could not keep her eyes only on the man. She was a fool. Maybe he was Darkness. But for some reason, instead of heeding the warning in his expression, in his words and deeds, she stupidly took her eyes away from him.

It was the child. Jarringly innocent in this darkened luxurious room, a clamouring instinct had welled up and overtook her good sense.

If she survived this, she’d blame Helewise and Vernon. Gabriel as well, for he was frequently sick and needed her care. He’d been unused to street fare and exposure. It had taken him weeks to toughen to the degree he had.

‘You haven’t told me why I’m here.’

‘I will, in my time.’

‘In the meantime—’ She couldn’t let it go. It was unwell; she was certain of it. Maybe it was the fact she had been a neglected child, or maybe it was the care of Helewise and Vernon that compelled her. Either way, she asked, ‘Is the child yours?’

He swiped a dagger from his waist. If she had taken those steps towards him, it would be buried in her belly.

‘Why do you keep asking me questions about the child?’

‘You’re...’ she swallowed ‘...you’re holding her in front of me.’

The blade looked well used and fit easily in his hand. It was a weapon this man had used many times before. He held still. So did she.

‘The child isn’t mine,’ he answered, watching her watch the blade.

Her entire life she’d lived with Death and his scythe. If it wasn’t the icy cold of winter trying to kill her, it was another person trying to survive. When threatened, she’d learned it was always the person behind the weapon she should be wary of. But this man wasn’t like another thief on the streets trying to steal a blanket. This man didn’t pull his blade to take something from her, for she had nothing. He pulled the blade because she asked about the child. He did it to protect the child—from her.

Fear from being kidnapped swirled with her usual mistrust. But his deeds ceased every emotion in her. She’d never seen a person defend a child before. Not like this. Certainly never her own parents and even a mother with a suckling infant put the infant aside if there was food to be had or a customer to pull up her skirts for.

Five winters past, it had been bitterly cold and she had come across what she thought were wadded-up old blankets. But instead of a treasure, it was a swaddled baby. Frozen, its skin pale, lips blue, with ice feathering along its tiny eyelashes. She’d cried for days afterwards. The babe haunted her dreams still. To this day she avoided that part of town in winter and found herself wary of piles in corners.