Sasha immediately dropped her hand and turned to face the stage, her breathing still trapped in her throat. She swallowed and let out a soft, shaky breath.

Ruby turned, noticing her sudden restlessness. She smiled at her friend and pretended to focus on the singing below.

Willoghby was here.

Gabrielle was here.

Sasha was not the reason she was here. Nor was West. Gabrielle was here because of Willoghby.

That was why she was able to save Sasha that night in the garden.

She was following the bastard.

Sasha's mind reeled. But why?

Why was Belcourt still looking for him if Gabrielle was at his tail?

Unless she never reported it.

Just like how she never told the Mistresses about Sasha's agreement with West.

What was she up to?

Who was she working for if not Belcourt?

Sasha was distracted from her thoughts when a man walked toward her. He bent and whispered, "My lady, I was asked to deliver this note."

Sasha looked at the card and took it. "Thank you."

With her hands still shaking, she opened the note and read.

Outside. Now. -Your flower

She turned to look over her shoulder. He was gone.

With a sigh, Sasha turned to Ruby and Jade. "I need to step outside," she excused.

Ruby looked behind them and at West's empty seat. She nodded with a meaningful smile before turning her attention back on stage.

The corridor outside was empty. West was standing by the door, leaning against the wall. The moment Sasha walked out, he grabbed her hand and dragged her to a dark corner behind a large potted plant and a column.

"Why is Willoghby here, Sasha?" he hissed, eyes blazing with fury.

"How did—"

"This bloody opera is a bore and I was sitting behind you. I noticed how you scoured the entire theater. And I have my own glasses." He sighed, hands on his hips. He looked to both ends of the corridor before fixing his angry eyes back on her. "I thought you said you already reported him?"

"I—," she did want to lie, so instead she said, "Belcourt is now looking for him."

"Then why is the bloody bastard still roaming around Coulway, following you, Sasha?"

"I do not know. And now that you mention it, I must find a way to let them know he is still in Coulway."

His jaw tightened. "You are not doing it tonight. I am taking you home. Now."

"No. I intend to see this opera through."

He let out an exasperated sigh. "The bastard is being elusive, and I am losing my patience."

"So do I," she indignantly said.

"If Belcourt does not do something soon, Sasha, I will." And he was serious. It was there in his eyes.

She sighed, dropping her shoulders. "West, please, let us not spoil this night. Willoghby is only one man. I am certain that once Belcourt finds him, he will have no chance. He is facing the island."

She watched his jaw clench as he glared at the wall across the corridor. "I am giving Belcourt a week." He looked down at her, this time with a calmer look in his brown globes. "After that, I will send my own men after the bastard. There will be no island for him after that, Sasha, I swear to God."

She smiled. "Agreed." And without furthermore to say, she started to turn to return to their box.

But of course, he stopped her, pulling her back to face him. "You are not even trying to appease me."

She blinked in confusion. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you would not want me furious throughout the night."

She snorted. "You are mad, West Blackwood. We must return to the box."

He pulled her closer and deeper into the corner, leaning against the wall. "Later," he murmured, watching her face. "I saw you shaking earlier."

"I was not shaking."

"You looked bloody terrified," he added, pulling her to stand between his parted legs. "You were shaking."

"I was not—well, perhaps my hands were shaking. I was angry. He is roaming about freely." And it is my fault, she added in her head.

He touched the curls dangling beside her ear with a forefinger. "You went as stiff as a bloody stone."

"Stop it," she snapped, tilting her head up. Then she narrowed her eyes. "You were watching me."

He shrugged. "All night." Bending his head, he planted a light kiss on her lips. Then with a groan, he came back for another kiss that lasted longer than she had expected.

"You do not pull me into any dark, filthy alleyways," he whispered against her mouth, his hand pressing her hips against his. "Your rule, remember?"

Sasha smiled, remembering that winter afternoon. "This is no alleyway, is it?" she asked.

"No, of course not," he murmured, tilting his head to nibble on her ear.

"Not so filthy either."

"No." He trailed kisses down her neck.

"Then no rule is broken."

Kissing West Blackwood was always a mystery. She knew what he tasted like, was familiar with the intensity, the hunger. But it was always a different experience.

It made her think of wicked things, erasing matters of more import that she should be thinking of. He could do that and more.

Alarming, yet exciting all the same.

Breathless with want, they sank deeper into each other, whispering incoherent words.

Stop. No, don't stop. Not here. Yes...

"The ending is poor," he whispered, his mouth returning to hers.

"What?"

"The opera. The ending is poor."

"How did you know?"

"We are here, are we not?"

She smiled against his lips.

"We are leaving this place," he rasped.

"Yes."

"Everleigh."

Sasha opened her eyes. "Everleigh?"

West nodded. "I am taking you home."

*****

"Surely, you must be jesting, sir," Sasha said an hour later, gazing out the window. "I should have climbed into my own carriage."

"Iyana and I have become fast friends. She was very glad to leave you in my care."

She shook her head, tearing her eyes off the large manor.

"West, we could go home to the villa."

His face darkened. "No."

"This is about Willoghby, is it not?"

His jaw went tight. "Of course, it is about that bastard. He was at the theater. You must be insane if you expect me to let you go home alone."

"Then we can stay at your villa—"

"Darren is too young to die for you, Sasha," he said with finality as the door of the carriage opened, revealing Darren's grinning face.

"Welcome to Everleigh, Lady Sasha."

Sasha gulped, stealing the façade of the manor one more look.

Bloody hell, she did it.

She was here.

*****

West took Sasha straight to the parlor and before she could even take a seat, Seven bounded into the room and unto her lap, lapping on her face.

He listened as she laughed against Seven's attack while he poured drinks for them both.

"Seven," he said with warning as he approached. The dog turned to stare at him and then settled on Sasha's lap. "Good evening to you, too, you unfaithful bastard," he addressed the dog, handing Sasha her drink. As she reached out for it, he pulled back. "You do not fare well with spirits."

She scowled. "I can manage a brandy."

"The last we had a drink together, you ran away."

She reached for the drink and he allowed her with a smile. "You were staring at me as if I was a sumptuous meal that had gone bad."

West chuckled. "The first agreement was stupid."

"I agree."

They shared a secret smile.

Then she blinked away and looked around the room. "Is that your father?" she asked, looking at the large painting hanging above the fireplace.

West nodded without looking.

She searched the room.

"You are looking for my mother's painting."

"Yes. On my last trip to Belcourt, I could not help but look at every woman I met, wondering if one of them is the person I'm looking for."

West stood and reached for her hand. Seven jumped off her lap as she stood.

Without a word, he guided her out of the parlor, both of them still holding their drinks.

He led her upstairs, down another corridor, and into his study.

Inside, right across the large table, was his mother's painting.

Sasha walked toward her, transfixed. "She's beautiful."

"Was," he corrected, leaning against the edge of his table, staring at his mother's radiant, beautiful face. Her brown waves were tied to one side, ornamented with pearls and feathers. Her light blue eyes were telling them a funny story, one West often wondered about. What could she be saying as she sat still for her painting? Was she laughing? About what?

"You look like her."

"You saw my father's painting, so yes, thank you."

She laughed. "He was not bad at all! He just seemed scary."

"And he was," he said with a sigh. With one motion, he downed the rest of his drink and laid the empty glass on the table. He approached Sasha and circled an arm around her waist. "Do you think she also looks like her?"

She shrugged. "If I had seen anyone that looks as close to your mother, I believe I would have noticed her."

"Then she must have taken after the king."

"I have only seen one painting of the king."

"And?"

"I cannot truly say. It is hard to imagine him looking like a woman."

West laughed. "You just painted a funny picture in my head."

"You are foxed. You are laughing."

"I can laugh," he said, taking her drink. "That's enough for you."

He placed the drink on the table nearby and returned to her side, pulling her into his arm, burying his face in her neck.

He just broke his own rules.

He should not have taken her here.

But it felt right—her being here.

Taking a lungful of her scent, West swayed on the spot.

"You are indeed foxed. You are dancing."

"I'm making love, Sasha."

She chuckled and it was music for their dance.

He leaned back, content to just watch her eyes glimmer under the yellow light of the study. "You look beautiful tonight."

Her right brow cocked high. "You have always hated my gowns."

He stared down at the blazing orange gown. "I still hate your gown."

Her shoulders shook with laughter. "This gown pales in comparison to others, sir. Please, have a care."

Tracing a finger at her neckline, he dryly said, "It bares your shoulders."

"My shoulders are fine."

"They are marvelous and ought to be covered." He sighed, dipping his head down to claim her mouth. "But enough of your bloody dresses."

*****

Sasha dropped on top of him, panting and completely sated.

His hand reached up to wipe the sweat from her forehead and cupped her face. With a lazy smile, he rolled her to her side.

"I told you it could work," he said, kissing her damp hair.

She moistened her lips and stole a kiss. "What are we doing, West?"

His face buried in the crook of her neck and shoulder, he murmured, "We are resting. Then I am going to find out if that table in the corner will finally serve a purpose." Sliding a hand up to her breast, he added, "Then perhaps the window after that."

Sasha turned and urged him to roll his head, so he was looking at her. "No. I meant... we should not be doing this at all."

His hand stilled and his eyes suddenly turned serious. He clenched his jaw and asked, "You are my Belle."

"You mean I am your whore."

Anger flashed his eyes. "What? No, I meant—"

She smiled. "I know what you meant. I was merely teasing," she said, kissing the scowl off his face. "Do not mind me. I am just asking questions."

"And I am just answering questions."

She let the quiet of the night linger between them. His hand started to move again in a lazy caress, pulling her leg over his for a tight snuggle.

"If I am another woman, not from Belcourt, would you ever consider me for a wife?"

He bent his head to look at her. "Why are you asking these questions, Sasha?"

"I told you I am a curious creature. Nothing but curiosity, sir." She placed a hand on his chest. "Well? Will you?"

"If you are another woman?"

She nodded.

His eyes were gentle, but his words stung. "I cannot imagine you as anyone else, Sasha."

Sasha smiled against the pang in her chest. "Of course. So do I."

He closed his eyes and whispered, "Now, sleep, darling. I might just wake you up in a while."

Sasha stayed quiet and waited until she was certain that he was asleep.

She waited a little while longer, silently debating with herself.

This may be the only chance, the voice insisted.

This could indeed be her only chance to be in Everleigh.

Carefully, she slid away from West's hold and out of the bed. She grabbed a robe near the washstand and waited.

And she debated some more.

Minutes later, Sasha was back in his study, Seven quietly tailing her.

Decided, she went to the table. There was nothing on top save for his writing articles.

She looked at the door before she pulled open the first drawer. Again, nothing but an invitation to an opera and a few balls.

She reached for the second one, then the third.

They were nearly empty.

With more determination, Sasha looked around the room. She searched the bookshelves, her heart racing against her chest.

Nothing.

She paced around the room.

Perhaps there was nothing to find. Perhaps the prince was wrong.

She paused in her steps and stared at Elizabeth Blackwood's beautiful face.

"Where is she?" she whispered. "Where's your daughter?"

Then she scoffed, thinking herself crazy for talking to a painting of a woman.

Sasha gave the room another scan.

The shelves, the table, the settee, the liquor cabinet, the table by the window—

Her eyes veered back to the liquor cabinet. At the top were the variety of drinks and some empty glasses. Down, at the very bottom, was an intricate square carving.

Her heart hammered faster and stronger as her feet rushed toward it.

Kneeling on the floor, Sasha ran the tips of her fingers on the square surface. She slipped her hand through the small gap between the furniture and the floor, blindly reaching for the bottom. Then her hand pushed upward.

The surface moved and she flinched.

A drawer without a handle. Pushing the bottom surface of the cabinet, she tried to slide it forward toward her. The square carving started to ease out, revealing the hidden drawer.

Sasha could feel the tears at the back of her eyes as they landed on the leather-bound book.

She knew what it was. She had something similar back in her villa.

Withdrawing her hand from the bottom of the cabinet, Sasha picked up the journal.

She looked over her shoulder. Seven was sitting by the closed door, sleeping.

Bending her head back on the object in her hand, Sasha opened it.

A folded letter was tucked between the first two pages.

She hesitated.

Her heart was screaming this was wrong while her mind urged her to be fast.

So with shaking hands, Sasha unfolded the letter.

You were raised to be wise and cunning.

Take the learnings from the journal and dispose of it.

Find the instructions.

Follow them, son, for the outcome will be our legacy.

Breathless with guilt and anticipation, Sasha hastily scanned the last remaining pages of the journal, her eyes frantically searching for something.

Then she froze. A chill ran up her spine.

Our King Reginald is waiting for her. Find her and bring her to him. He will make contact soon. Be careful, for our enemies will be watching you. Dispose of this journal. Dispose of everything. No evidence, son. Leave nothing.

Give Sutherland back to its rightful king.

Sasha did not feel the tears streaming down her face until they blurred her vision. She wiped them with the back of her hand, but more tears flowed.

Her shoulders shook, the pang in her chest replaced by a crushing, twisting pain.

For quite some time, she allowed herself to cry.

And when she thought she could stand, she closed the drawer and came to her feet, stumbling as she did so, the journal and the letter falling on the floor. She picked them up and went to the settee.

Sasha sniffled, allowing the tears to flow.

But her mind was beginning to work again.

She had to do her task.

She had to be wise.

A shiver ran through her and her shoulders shook once more, her tears unstoppable.

Seven padded toward her and whimpered at her feet.

"I am all right, my friend," she whispered, scratching the dog's head. "I am all right."

Sasha squared her shoulders.

Then she prayed for that was all she could do.

She prayed that she would be doing the right thing.