Kiss of Steel by Bec McMaster

in his voice wasn’t as pronounced as the others. Indeed, she could sense a vague Scottish burr within certain words. He took a step toward her and Honoria held her ground, though she was tempted to back away. “How?”
    “He ain’t thinkin’ right with you. You’re one o’ ’em, all high in the instep. A fancy lass, who’ll do his head in and not give a damn, ’cept what you can get from him.”
    Honoria took a step back. He was right. She had been thinking of what she could get from Blade. But then she remembered his words in the pub. You’ll beg me to take you in… Any sense of guilt fled. This was purely a transaction between them. Nothing more.
    “He wants blood. I’m prepared to provide it,” she replied stiffly. “Are you going to escort me or not?”
    Will’s eyes narrowed, a thin slit of lambent gold. “Aye,” he said. “But you hurt him and you’ll have me to reckon with. Just you think on that.”
    ***
     
    Noise washed over him, a roar from the crowd as someone in the ring went down. Blade leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up on the rail of his private box in the Pits as he peered through the haze of smoke from his cheroot.
    “That’s Grady’s bout!” O’Shay laughed, holding up his wager slip. “Told ye ’e’d win!”
    Blade flicked the ash from the tip of his cheroot. “Scurvy’s down. ’E ain’t out yet. Watch.”
    O’Shay peered closer just as Jim Scurvy kicked out, his steel-plated boots striking Grady in the kneecap. There was an audible crack and Grady went down, a look of shock and pain on his grimy face. Scurvy was on him in a second, drawing back his meaty fists and pounding the claret out of Grady. It splashed across the white sand, drawing another appreciative gasp from the crowd.
    “Bleedin’ useless cur!” O’Shay snarled, tearing up his ticket. He threw it out over the crowd like a handful of snowflakes.
    Movement caught Blade’s eye from the boxes across the arena. He ground out the cheroot, slinging his feet to the floor. “Themselves is ’ere. Watch me back.”
    O’Shay looked up, the purpose of the visit forgotten in the bloodlust. “Oh. Right.” His gaze narrowed on the three men who were seating themselves across the arena. A pair of bodyguards stood behind the chairs, eyes roaming the crowd and hands held low, most likely on weapons.
    Blade put a hand on the rail of his box and leapt over it, sinking into the sweating throng of heaving bodies. The heat of the crowd’s lust surged through him, sending his heart racing. Blood everywhere. He could smell it. On the sand, on the men’s knuckles, old blood lingering in men’s clothes and even on some of the few women who joined the crowd.
    He’d already fed tonight, but the hunger lingered near the surface, threatening to slide through the cracks in his control. Always present. Always keeping him alert. One slip and he’d be the monster carving up the crowd, raining more blood down on the arena than they could ever desire.
    Yet they were oblivious to the threat among them. He was too well known, a tiger in their midst that they no longer feared because of familiarity. Some cast a wary eye on him, but none backed away.
    More gazes drifted toward the perfumed trio in the other box. Debney was there, a scented handkerchief held to his face as he peered toward the limp form being carried from the ring. At his side, the young, dashing Leo Barrons, heir to the duke of Caine, and the third…
    The world narrowed as Blade stared at Alaric Colchester, a scion of the House of Lannister. Vickers’s young cousin.
    The world went gray. Then red. Blade fought it off, breathing hard through his nostrils.
    “Blade?” O’Shay bumped against him.
    A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Don’t touch me.”
    O’Shay stepped back, wary of Blade’s deadly soft tone. He knew what that meant and kept the crowd out of his way while Blade brought himself back under control.
    It wasn’t the time. Vickers would pay, and his