You Only Love Twice (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 3)

by Bec McMaster

  "Because he showed so much mercy when it was you in his sights," Malloryn snarled.

  She could hear movement behind her, Obsidian clambering to his feet. His hand gripped her skirt, as if he needed help to steady himself. Electrical current was one of the few weapons any man—be he human, blue blood, or dhampir—was vulnerable to.

  There was no way they could ever be together. She knew that.

  "Go," she whispered, tearing her gaze from Malloryn's just long enough to push at Obsidian's chest.

  Obsidian's gaze slid over her shoulder, locking on Malloryn with a faint air of menace.

  "Don't you dare." Malloryn wasn't the only one whose bullet she needed to stop right now. If it came down to the duke versus the dhampir assassin, she wasn't entirely certain how the cards would fall.

  Malloryn was only a blue blood, but he knew what he was facing. He'd have made precautions to allow for the nature of his opponent, and he wouldn't hesitate to use them. The Duke of Malloryn didn't lose.

  And she couldn't lose either of them.

  "Please go," she whispered.

  Obsidian's hand captured hers, his gloved fingers stroking the back of her hand for just a second.

  "You want me to be safe from your companions?" Gemma grabbed two fistfuls of Obsidian's waistcoat, keeping her body between him and the duke. "COR will keep me safe. And we couldn't... we couldn't continue the way we were. Walk away and erase me from your life. Forget me, just as you promised. You know the truth now. We both know the truth. This can end without either of us getting hurt."

  It wasn't as if there was any way they could ever be together.

  Her loyalty was to the duke and the queen. To London. She would not compromise the core of her beliefs, not even for him.

  If only she was a mere Capulet.

  His hand clasped hers, darkness sweeping through his eyes. "You were right. I don't think I can erase you. If I could, it would have happened when they sent me for reconditioning."

  "Try harder," she snapped.

  A thoughtful look came into his eyes, and then he grabbed her by the back of the head and kissed her. Hard. Brutal. Goodbye.

  Letting her go, he took a step away from her, shooting Malloryn one last look, and then he was gone, stepping off the rooftop into the streets below and vanishing into the shadows of the night.

  Gemma sank to her knees.

  For the second time in her life, she'd betrayed Malloryn for the sake of her wretched heart.

  Chapter 15

  At least Malloryn waited until they were home.

  "Nearly there, Gem," Ingrid murmured, helping her up the stairs toward the main entrance of the safe house.

  Malloryn strode toward the front door as if he could barely look at her. He'd ridden in front with Herbert on the way home and spoken not a word to her. Tension vibrated through his lean form. A storm brewed within him, despite the cold look on his face, and Gemma couldn't stop herself from glancing at him to gauge the full effect of his fury.

  A tropical cyclone, she decided. Ready to burst from his skin the second she opened her mouth.

  "We're incredibly pleased you're back." Ingrid squeezed her hand, and Gemma was suddenly grateful for her tall verwulfen friend.

  "Speak for yourself," Byrnes called. "At least my blud-wein collection's been safe from a certain blud-wein thief. I haven't missed you at all."

  Ingrid swung a lazy punch in his direction, but he avoided it with a laugh. Gemma mock scowled at him, but his joking eased the knot of tension within her.

  She couldn't quite manage a smile in return, though she tried. "Thank you."

  Byrnes squeezed her shoulder.

  Ava burst through the front door in a flurry of lace. The young scientist had been forced to stay behind, but she scurried down the steps and threw her arms around Gemma. "Oh, my goodness! You're alive."

  And there was the welcome she needed. Gemma lost herself in Ava's embrace, squeezing hard to try and choke down the urge to cry.

  So much had happened in the space of a few days. Obsidian, alive. The Chameleon, also alive. A threat to the queen. Her heart, ripped clean out of her chest, as she came face-to-face with the ghosts of the past and realized there was so much more to it than what she'd thought.

  It was easy to lock her heart away when she'd told herself the man she loved had shot her without remorse. Easy to tell herself none of it had been real. He played you. He was an enemy spy who pulled the wool over your eyes.

  Except now there was a whisper of doubt in her mind.

  Obsidian could barely remember the past.

  He certainly couldn't explain what had happened.

  Or why.

  He had barely any recollection of shooting her, only the aftermath. It was as though he'd pulled the trigger, and came back to himself just in time to watch her fall.

  This is not the first time this has happened, said the assassin-trained part of her mind that never stopped thinking.

  Gemma no longer knew what was real, and what was not.

  Whatever she'd felt for Obsidian, those feelings clearly lingered. She'd thrown herself between him and Malloryn without a hesitation.

  But could she trust those feelings?

  Could she trust him?

  Her heart was a mess, and her thoughts didn't help.

  "Come on," Ava said, drawing back from her embrace. "You look like you could use a hot bath and a glass of blud-wein."

  "A bath sounds heavenly."

  Ingrid nudged her husband in the ribs as they turned for the door.

  "Really?" Byrnes protested. "Why am I the only one who suddenly has blud-wein?"

  "Well, you could ask Malloryn," Gemma pointed out.

  "She's not back a minute and she's throwing me to the wolves?" Byrnes shot her a look. "Fine. I'll fetch the blud-wein."

  The second Gemma was through the front door, the tension within her eased a fraction. Home. She was finally home.

  At the top of the stairs, Malloryn glanced down at her, then turned and stalked toward his study.

  And suddenly the tension was back. "How mad is he?"

  "Want me to thrash him?" Ingrid growled.

  "No. Thank you, Ingrid, but I think.... I think I'd best talk to him," she whispered.

  Three pairs of eyes watched her walk stiffly up the stairs, as if she walked to her doom.

  Perhaps she did.

  She'd felt this way after her failure in Russia. It was the only other time she'd seen such disappointment in Malloryn's eyes.

  But there was no point in putting it off. She needed to face him and deal with the consequences before she could enjoy her glass of blud-wein and her bath.

  When she knocked on the open door to his study, she found Malloryn staring into the fireplace, resting his arm on the mantle. His fingers curled laxly around a glass of brandy, and he didn't so much as flinch when she closed the door behind her.

  "What the hell were you thinking?" he asked roughly.

  That I couldn't let you kill him. Gemma remained silent, though indignation burned through her.

  "I thought you were dead," he growled out.

  "Well, apparently he didn't wish to kill me."

  "And then you bloody well leaped between us. I nearly shot you."

  "You didn't—"

  "Only because my reflexes are excellent. I keep asking myself, why? And the only thing I can come up with is that you weren't thinking at all. Damn it, Gemma. This is the second time you've let your emotions cloud your judgment when it comes to this man. Do you not realize he's the enemy?"

  "I don't know if he—"

  "Because I do." Malloryn slammed a hand to his chest. "I know he's the enemy, and all I can see is Russia happening all over again, and—"

  "I'm sorry if my emotions are so cursed inconvenient to you!" Heat seared the backs of her eyes, but at least the craving virus protected her from shedding any bloody tears. "Do you think I want to feel this way? Do you think I have any damned choice?" Her voice ros
e. "I loved him. Do you even know what that means? Have you ever, in your entire life, known what it feels like to care for someone more than yourself?"

  Malloryn flinched.

  "Love?" His tone turned the word into an insult. "If that is love, then no, I don't know what it means. And I don't want to."

  A hot fist of fury burned within her, and she poured herself a brandy because he wasn't damned well going to. "Say what you want to me, but don't you dare try and pretend how I felt—how I feel"—there. She'd said it—"is inconsequential."

  "He shot you in the fucking chest."

  "I know!" Gemma paced in front of the fire with her brandy. She could still see Obsidian's face as she showed him the scar between her breasts. "I'll never forget that night. But there was something I was missing until now.... When he shot me that night I thought my cover was blown, and he was furious with me for betraying him. But I can remember the expression on his face, Malloryn. Or the lack of one rather. That wasn't fury. That wasn't betrayal. There was nothing of my Dmitri in his face. Nothing at all. When he pulled that trigger, he might as well have been shooting at a target."

  "Well, he wasn't. If you think for one second he didn't intend to kill you that night, then you've lost all your wits. Because I was there too, Gemma. I remember everything too. How can you forgive that?"

  "Because the only other time I've ever seen a man look that blank when he pulled a trigger is when Jonathan Carlyle murdered Lord Randall," she whispered.

  Malloryn drew up shortly.

  All this time, she'd summoned the look on Dmitri's face when he shot her, forcing herself to accept the fact she'd been played. The Dmitri she'd known, who laughed at her jokes and deliberately sabotaged her efforts to seduce her mark, had been nowhere in that moment. She'd always told herself it was because the Dmitri she'd known had never existed.

  A role. An act. An enemy spy toying with her emotions.

  But what if there was another explanation?

  "I know you think my mind choked with emotion, but Obsidian kept me locked away in the Duke of Vickers's abandoned manor for days. I've done nothing but bloody well think, and there is something about what happened that night in Saint Petersburg I am missing. And I couldn't help but start thinking about Carlyle." She dragged her hand through her ruined coiffure. "You've always told me to trust my instincts. And they are screaming at me right now that there is something wrong with the facts in front of me. Carlyle broke down in tears when he realized he'd murdered Lord Randall. His story never changed, Malloryn, because there was nothing to change. It was exactly as he believed it. He couldn't remember what happened. He didn't want to kill Randall. And when Obsidian shot me on that bridge in Saint Petersburg, he might as well have been an automaton. There was nothing inside him. Just a blank canvas. A weapon. And he barely remembers it. When he took me this time, Obsidian didn't want to kill me. He refused to hurt me." She took a deep breath. "And when a pair of his fellow dhampir found us, he fled with me. Malloryn, after all he's done to me, I know it's hard to believe, but Obsidian was trying to protect me."

  The duke's face remained expressionless.

  "Remember that time I was attacked in the museum?" she pleaded, desperately needing someone else to understand, as if it would give credence to her theory. "Someone rescued me. Someone killed the dhampir who tried to hurt me. My CV levels went through the roof, and Ava said there was something wrong with my blood. I shouldn't have healed as swiftly as I did, and yet, it was a miracle. Or... more to the point, some dhampir used his evolved blood to heal me. It's the only rational explanation. It was him. I know it was him. He's been following me for weeks now, like some cursed guardian angel, protecting me from his brethren's attempts to assassinate me."

  The duke turned away from her, scraping a hand over his mouth. "Did you learn anything?" he growled out. "Please tell me you at least discovered who's pulling the strings behind the scenes."

  She swallowed hard, nursing the brandy. "I.... He didn't trust me enough."

  A sound of pure frustration vibrated through his throat as he turned away from her.

  "If you let me try and reach him again, perhaps I can—"

  "For fuck's sake. Fuck." Turning suddenly, Malloryn threw his empty glass at the wall. It shattered with a loud crash. "Stop thinking he's not a threat to you."

  He might as well have slapped her.

  To see Malloryn undone by emotion was shocking.

  Gemma dragged Ingrid's coat tightly around her shoulders, feeling small and cold. You failed. Again.

  She'd promised herself she'd never feel this way after those dark days following Russia.

  Promised herself no man would ever bring her this low.

  "But I—"

  "No." Malloryn released a sharp breath, forcibly putting himself back together right in front of her eyes. "No. You're off duty."

  "What? Why?"

  "I don't know, Gemma." Malloryn's lips pressed tightly together. "Can I trust you?"

  She gaped.

  "Oh, not your loyalty. Never that." He turned his piercing gaze upon her. "But can I trust you not to let emotion rule you? We both know you cannot confront him and keep your wits about you. If it comes down to a choice between the right thing to do and protecting him, I know which option you will choose."

  There was a hollow feeling deep within her.

  Malloryn had taken her from the darkness as a child. He'd taught her there was more to life than survival and death. She'd never known a family, but he'd been the one person she'd always looked up to—indeed, she'd spent the last ten years of her life trying to please him. To disappoint him like this felt like carving her own heart out of her chest with a spoon.

  He didn't believe her.

  No. Worse. He didn't believe in her.

  "You're off the Chameleon case," he repeated quietly.

  Gemma hung her head. "Yes, Your Grace."

  And then, unable to bear his disapproval any longer, she turned and strode blindly for the door.

  The door opened quietly.

  The second he smelled her perfume, Malloryn knew who it was. Nobody else would dare enter the room while he was in this mood. And she couldn't resist.

  "Get out," he said flatly, nursing his brandy.

  He knew he wasn't himself.

  It was happening all over again, and he couldn't help seeing Gemma's body jerk as Obsidian shot her that night in Russia, again and again.

  Not her. Please not her.

  He needed her off this case before she could be injured. He'd thought he could manage his feelings toward her when he brought her back into this operation, but the last few days had been a recurring nightmare he couldn't seem to wake from. It brought the past rushing back to him; Catherine's smile haunting him every time he saw the same smile on Gemma's face.

  "You can't protect her from the world," Isabella murmured, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

  "It's not the world I want to protect her from."

  He pushed away from her, unable to bear a comforting touch, even from her. There was a spiraling sensation in his chest. A feeling events were spinning out of control.

  "She said you'd taken her off the case."

  "It's for her own good." He'd never imagined Gemma would be facing Dmitri again.

  "She thinks she's failed you again."

  "Failed me?" He jerked his head to stare at the woman who'd once been his mistress. "How...? But...?"

  "Russia, Malloryn." Isabella rolled her eyes. "You have no idea, do you? For all your frightful intelligence, you are severely blinded to those closest to you. Have you ever told Gemma what she means to you?"

  "She means nothing more than—"

  "Stop lying to yourself." Isabella glared at him. "I know you see Catherine every time you look at Gemma."

  "It's not what you think."

  "Oh, I'm aware of that. Do you think I would ever have seduced you if I thought your heart lay elsewhere? Gemma's the one weakness you own though."
/>
  "It's...." He tried to explain it.

  "You couldn't protect Catherine," Isabella continued in a firm voice, "and you watched Gemma nearly die in your arms. I know Russia frightened you more than you'll ever admit. I watched you change when you realized what she meant to you. You've always tried to keep Gemma at arm's length. You're astonishingly protective of her, for a man who doesn't care." She stepped closer. "You disapprove of her love life like a curmudgeonly older uncle; you sent her away for all those years as if you wanted to keep her out of harm's way; she exasperates you; you lecture her all the damned time.... Malloryn, I know what she means to you. She's like a sister, isn't she?"

  "Catherine's little sister," he breathed.

  Isabella reared back. "What?"

  "Not by blood," he murmured, his shoulders sinking. "I've checked. I cannot find any record of it, though they look so damned alike it's uncanny. But... it feels as though she keeps Catherine's memory alive for me."

  "Oh, Malloryn." Isabella reached for him, leaning up on her toes to kiss him, sympathy in her eyes.

  He turned away, and her lips fell upon his cheek, pausing there as she felt his denial.

  "Isabella, I can't. I'm getting married tomorrow." His voice tightened. "This does no good to either of us."

  To you.

  Isabella lowered her heels to the ground, her jaw clenching. "Of course. This was an arrangement from the start."

  Guilt stirred through him, for he was coming to realize something that had escaped his notice until recently.

  It had stopped being an arrangement in her eyes at some point, and he'd missed the warning signs.

  They'd worked together for years.

  Indeed, almost as long as he'd known Gemma.

  Isabella had been widowed young, and at first they'd shared that. Two souls who'd lost the loves of their lives and came together to share something purely physical. He'd told her things he'd never admitted to anyone else, but the way he felt about her...

  It was friendship, and nothing more.

  "You're a beautiful, intelligent woman who has the entire world at her feet," he said softly. Gently. "You deserve more than I can give you."

  She gave a false laugh, reeling away from him. "Oh, God. Please, stop. You are so blind, Malloryn, so blind...."