The streets were cold and bare. Every passer by was a blur. Pain thrummed through him. He'd almost turned back the moment the door to his room had clicked shut. Every step he took tore him apart, but he forced himself to move, convincing himself it was for her sake.

Her appearance had been the one thing he'd hoped for and dreaded at the same time. He'd wanted to see her one last time, but he couldn't face those empty eyes, red and swollen from crying. It was all his fault. She'd been right.

Opening the door to see her standing there had been like a dream. Beneath the ragged layers of his disguise, his heart had quickened, and it had taken all his self-control not to close the distance between them and take her in his arms. Of course she'd recognized him. What had he expected? She could always see the real him, no matter what mask he wore.

Talking to her had been torture. Nickolas slid into an alleyway and shut his eyes, leaning his forehead against the wall. He was a bastard, a low-born, no good bastard to hurt her like that. He should never have told her he loved her. He should have kept his distance, but he'd been drawn to her from the start.

For the first time in his life, he'd seen a future for himself beyond all the killing and fighting. He hadn't cared what happened to him as long as she was beside him. Somehow, she'd made him feel strong and weak all at once. He'd seen the appeal of a quiet life for the first time, and in her wild spirit, he'd recognized the desire to run, to see everything, that mirrored his own.

It had been his mistake to bring it back to her door, though. Now, her father was dead because of him. She'd shut him out completely that day—and with good reason. For some bizarre reason, he'd thought that would make it easier. How mistaken he'd been!

Drawing a deep breath, he shoved down his feelings. They left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. He'd gotten so lazy lately. Once, pushing away his own desires had been so easy, but then again, he'd never wanted something so much.

Turning back to face the street, he caught sight of a well-dressed businessman strolling leisurely into the alley across from him. Something in his hardened instincts rebelled at the sight, and he frowned, pressing into the shadows. The village was far too small to draw attention from such men. Unless. . .

His mouth went dry, and stark fear snaked through him. Dropping his bag, he tore out of the alleyway. Ignoring the people in the street looking his way, he raced back to the pub, each footstep matching the pounding drum that was his heartbeat.

He didn't care where the rest of them were. The only thing on his mind was the fact that they'd obviously been watching him which could only mean they knew what room he'd been in, and they would go there. They would find Cassandra. She was alone.

He took the stairs four at a time, hoping he wasn't too late. Shoving caution to the wind, he threw himself into the room. Searing pain scorched the side of his skull, and he realized too late the trap he'd run into as the bullet thwacked into the wood of the doorframe, almost ending his existence.

Cassandra screamed his name, surprise and terror dancing across her features as another bullet caught him in the meaty flesh right below his collarbone. Before he could move, a second bullet struck him in the stomach, and he fell to his knees.

Like puzzle, he put all the pieces together. Cassandra hadn't been fighting them. She'd been letting them take her, he realized. She'd given up.

Roaring, Nickolas tried get up, to get to her. He had to fight for her. He had to—a third bullet buried itself into his chest, and he pitched backwards, gasping in pain. Cassandra screamed again, thrashing wildly in her captor's hands.

"Let's go. We've got her." An unfamiliar voice said. "Leave him to bleed out." It added as the others seemed to hesitate.

They hadn't been going after him at all. Cassandra had been their goal, and like a fool, he'd walked out, giving them the perfect opportunity. Nickolas groaned, trying—and failing—to get up.

"No! No!" Cassandra screamed as they pulled her toward the window. "Nickolas!"

Her voice was a distant echo in his ears as he fought to keep breathing. He'd suffered worse. He had to get up. Now.

Black stars danced across his vision, and when he came to his senses again, they were gone. Coughing, he ground his teeth together, using every fiber of his strength to push himself to his feet. The bullets had all gone clean through—a mercy considering what he had to do. He couldn't do it alone, though. He needed to get some help.

Grunting in pain, he pressed his hand against the hole in his stomach, which seemed to be bleeding the most, and stumbled to the door. Stepping into the hall, he found a group of wide-eyed patrons at the top of the stairs apparently trying to decide if they wanted to risk going in or not.

At the sight of the blood staining his clothes, they scattered, tripping over each other in an effort to escape him. Ignoring their scurrying, he moved down the stairs. Too slowly. Too clumsily.

They were getting away. He tripped on the second stair and sprawled down the rest. That was one way to do it. Pushing past the deafening roar of pain in his mind, he got to his feet and stumbled to the door just as four horses galloped by at breakneck speed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself for what he had to do next. Sweat was beginning to form on his brow, and the disguise wasn't helping anything, but he had no time to remove it.

The doorframe was so nice and sturdy. He pressed his forehead into the wood. His blood was spilling out, coloring his clothes and the ground where he was standing, and he knew if he stayed here for another moment, he wouldn't be able to muster the strength to leave.

Strength. That was what he needed. It was in short supply these days, but he willed himself to be able to do this one last thing. For Cassandra, he could continue to fight. For Cassandra, he opened his eyes.

•>>><><<<•

Ethan pressed his knuckles into his chin and stared out the window. Charles, in a fit of excited anger, had informed him that Cassandra had stolen the horse he'd intended to ride to see a tenant farmer and was well on her way to the village. The incredulous look on his friend's face when Ethan had told him that he'd encouraged her to do so was still burned into hi mind.

With a sigh, he rubbed at the wrinkles in his forehead. Maybe he and Lavinia had chosen the wrong path. Maybe they'd made a huge mistake. He really wasn't certain at this point, but there was one clear thought in his mind: if they hadn't told her, Cassandra would have resented them and this life for as long as she lived. And he wouldn't blame her.

He remembered when his father had tried to keep him away from the woman he loved, and he'd vowed to himself that he would never be the cause of someone else's similar unhappiness. This had been the only course of action to avoid that.

It wasn't as though they'd really had a choice, anyway. Cassandra had delved deep into herself after Ezra's death, and nothing had been able to rouse her. Lavinia had been afraid that she'd never come back to herself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Ethan felt the usual uncertainty welling within him. Had it been a mistake to bury Ezra so far away from the family home in London? They'd reported the death and done everything in order, sending word to the Antrucha lawyer in London, but Lavinia—and Cassandra in a rare moment of adamance—had insisted that he be buried here, beyond the stench and noise of the city. It was what he would've wanted, she said. Indeed, since he'd arrived in Scotland, there had been a more rested look about him, and Ethan had been about to suggest he move here indefinitely when it all happened.

The door crashed open, and Ethan started, turning to find a haggard appearing man standing in the doorway. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the rugged features and the crooked, yellow teeth that were bared as the man sucked in a sharp breath. Ethan's lips parted, and his hand slid one of the desk drawers open, rifling through it until he felt the cool metal of his pistol.

"We have to go." The voice was ragged and raspy and not the way Ethan remembered it in the slightest, but there could be no mistaking this was the man he'd been searching for.

"It's you." He said, aghast.

Jerking the pistol from the drawer, he pointed it in the man's direction. Finally, after all this time, after all his searching, the man had come to him.

"We don't have time for this." There was something vaguely familiar about the voice.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you? We have all the time in the world for you to explain exactly what happened to David Manuel's body after I left that day, Gideon Harper." Ethan seethed.

"No, we don't." The man staggered into the room, his breathing labored, and Ethan noticed the blood stains on his clothes for the first time. "They've taken Cassandra, and I need you to snap out of it, Ethan. I need your help. Where's Charlie?"

"Don't move another step." Ethan pulled back the hammer with a resounding click, his brain was whirling with the information he'd just been given. "How do you know my name, Gideon? Who's taken her?"

"Bloody hell." Gideon growled. "Get that thing away from my face now before I break your arm. I've had enough people pointing them at me for one day."

The voice was so savage, so feral. Not at all like the stupid farmer's voice Ethan remembered. Ethan didn't move the gun. He couldn't. Not when he was this close to understanding what had happened that day. It had haunted him for the past year and a half.

"Expl—"

Before he could react, Gideon's fist slammed into his wrist. With a cry, Ethan dropped the pistol, his hand tingling numbly.

"Now, shut the hell up and listen to me." Gideon growled. "We have to get out of here. There's no telling how far they've gotten already. Cassandra's life is in danger. We have to go. Do you actually know how to use one of these?" He indicated the pistol.

"What happened to Nickolas?" Ethan ignored the last question. "He would have saved her."

Gideon groaned in annoyance. "Seriously?"

Reaching up with unsteady hands, he pulled off his nose. Ethan fell back into his chair in shock as Gideon peeled away the pallid skin of his face, and then it was a very pale Nickolas staring back at him. The teeth came out next, and Ethan was certain his eyes couldn't get any wider.

"Holy—" He breathed. "I—you—it was you the whole time!" Ethan gasped, incredulous.

"There's no time to get into that now." Nickolas growled. "We have to get of here."

"Of course." Ethan shook his head, getting quickly to his feet and pulling the bell rope. "Send word to the stables that we need three horses saddled." He said as the waiting footman entered the room. "And tell Lord Fergus to get in here the moment he walks through the front door."

Seeming to understand the urgency in Ethan's voice, the servant disappeared with a quick bow. Cautiously, Ethan picked up his pistol, but Nickolas wasn't paying any attention to him. Stumbling over to the tumblers of alcohol on the nearby table, he grabbed the whiskey and drank straight from the bottle.

"Get me some bandages." His voice was husky and raw and commanded obedience.

Ethan hardly register that he was moving until he'd gone down the hall to the closet where he knew Charlie kept such supplies. An old basket filled with strips of absorbent, white cloth was somehow in his hands, and then he was back in the room with Nickolas again.

Nickolas had stripped off his shirt to reveal heavily bleeding wounds. Ethan stared at the injuries for a moment before propelling himself into action.

"What do you need?" He said, setting the basket on the table. His voice was sounded much steadier than he felt.

Nickolas grunted and visibly flinched. "A needle and thread."

Lavinia's sewing basket was in the parlor. Debating whether he should leave Nickolas or not, Ethan backed out the room. He hesitated for half a second outside the door before bolting down the hall. Whatever explanations he needed could wait. The only thing pulsing through his mind at the moment was that there was a man bleeding to death in his office, and someone had taken his sister-in-law.

Lavinia was in the parlor, her delicate hands at work on a baby blanket. She started when he shoved into the room and, at the sight of his face, got instantly to her feet. She opened her mouth to ask him what was going on, but he didn't give her the chance.

"I don't have time to explain right now. Nickolas is bleeding out in my office." He snatched up her work basket and sprinted out of the room.

She would follow him, he knew, and then he could explain everything properly. Right now, he had to make sure he did everything he could to help the ex-assassin. Something told him their very lives depended on it.

When he got back into the office, Nickolas was sitting in a chair, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. The man didn't look up as Ethan entered the room but proceeded to slosh some alcohol into one of his injuries, cursing at the pain.

As far as Ethan could see, there were three wounds: one in the shoulder, one on the far right side of his chest, and another in his gut. They must have been fired at point blank range, because blood was covering Nickolas's back from where the bullets had exited his body.

"Here." Ethan thrust a threaded needle in Nickolas's direction.

Nickolas eyed the needle and took another healthy swig of whiskey. The tumbler was almost empty. Grasping the needle with blood, covered hands, Nickolas gritted his teeth and pierced his skin.

Drawing a sharp breath, Ethan looked away quickly. Blood had never bothered him, but to see someone performing something like. . .that on themselves. . .It was enough to make him sick.

"What is going on?" Lavinia's startled voice reminded him that she'd followed him.

Ethan got quickly to his feet and went to her side. "I need you to sit down, my love."

He led her to a chair before she could object. Her eyes were glued to Nickolas as he continued stitching up his injuries amidst an occasion grunt of pain.

"Someone has taken Cassandra." He said gently. He wasn't sure how he could sugarcoat the news.

That drew her attention to him. "What?" Horror paled her features.

"I don't know all the details, but they've taken her." He forced his voice to be steady for her.

"Who?" She managed.

"I'm not sure, but we will get her back." He allowed determination he didn't feel to lace his words. She clutched at him.

"It was Granger." Nickolas's voice startled them both. It was strained and slightly weaker than usual. "He's after the Antrucha line. Now that your father is dead, he'll be coming after the two of you."

"It's the same man that killed Father?" Lavinia's grip on Ethan tightened, and fear danced in her eyes.

Nickolas looked her full in the face, pausing for a brief moment in his work. "Yes." Was all he said, and there was more promise, more anger, more determination in that one word than there could have been had he given a whole speech.

Understanding registered in Ethan's mind. Nickolas spoke like a man who had lost everything in his life, who wasn't about to lay down and take it as the last thing he cared about was snatched from him. There was cruel hatred in the depths of his eyes that told Ethan this man was going to kill the bastards that had taken—had perhaps injured—the woman he loved. Slowly. And he would enjoy it, too. Unapologetically.

With unsteady, bloody hands, Nickolas continued his work, and Ethan noticed the heavy swallow, the tensed muscles. Nickolas was on the verge of passing out, but he was fighting it. With every remaining fiber of his strength, he was warring against his humanity as he pierced his skin with the thick embroidery needle over and over again.

"Ethan," Lavinia's voice was small. "What if—"

"No," Ethan fixed her with a piercing stare. "Don't speak it. Don't even think it. We'll get her out." He held her hand, squeezing gently.

"I need one of you to help." Nickolas sounded endlessly tired, and both of them looked at him at once. "I need you to clean and close up the wounds on my back." He held out the needle with deft fingers. "It doesn't have to be done a certain way. It doesn't even have to be neat. I just need to not bleed to death for the next twenty-four hours. After that, a physician can see to it."

Ethan gingerly took the needle, and before he could say a word, Nickolas had turned about in his chair, so his back was facing them. His movements, however slow and stilted were no less graceful, but Ethan could see the way his shoulders were sagging. From the looks of it, Nickolas had just been on the way to recovery from multiple knife injuries. Most men would have been dead by now.

"I need you to hurry." Nickolas ground out.

Ethan breathed a curse and snatched the whiskey off the desk, gulping some down. Under the fiery influence of the liquid courage, his hands stilled their shaking. He could do this. He had to do this.

"Lavinia, if you would be so kind as to go to my old room and open the top dresser drawer, you'll find a little finger hole in the corner. Lift up the false bottom, and bring me the canvas bag you find there." Every word seemed to be an effort.

Wordlessly, Lavinia did as she was asked, her hand gripping her rounded stomach. Ethan watched her go before taking another swallow of whiskey. What the hell? He sloshed some of the liquid onto the shoulder injury, and Nickolas immediately tensed. Blood and alcohol mixed, running down Nickolas's skin in red-brown rivulets.

The sound of the needle piercing meaty flesh was sickening, and Ethan nearly heaved up his lunch. Nickolas jumped slightly and grunted in pain as the thread slid through his skin.

Another stitch. Another. Ethan shoved aside all feelings and thoughts, focusing only on the movement of his hands. Tying a quick knot, he sloshed whiskey into the second wound.

Nickolas's back arched of its own accord as the needle stabbed into him this time. The skin here was thicker and harder to penetrate because of already formed scar tissue. Indeed, now that he was up close, Ethan found Nickolas's back was littered with scars. A permanent reminder of his old profession.

As the needle stabbed into the third mottled hole, Nickolas's body went slack. Too slack. He slumped over to the side and, before Ethan could catch him, slid to the floor with a heavy thud. Cursing, Ethan rearranged him into a more comfortable position, unable to lift the heavy man back into the chair. The door burst open as he began stitching again.

"What the actual hell?" Charlie's eyes were wide, and disbelief wrinkled his brow at the sight of Ethan's blood-covered hands.

"Charlie! Thank God!" Ethan breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought you wouldn't make it back in time."

"What do you mean?" Charlie came into the room, throwing aside his riding crop and hat. "What's going on?"

"Cas—"

"Ethan." Lavinia's weak voice sent a tremor of alarm clanging through Ethan's body, and Charlie's arrival was instantly forgotten as his wife staggered into the doorway, clutching her wet skirts in one hand and Nickolas's canvas bag in the other.

She looked at him with her big eyes so full of terror, and before he could move to her, she collapsed to her knees, both hands going to her stomach as a contraction wracked her body. He forgot everything else in the look of pain and fear that danced across her features. The baby.

———————————-———————-—————-———

Gah! So much going on! I'll be honest with you, this chapter was done several days ago, but I've been running around here like a chicken without its head, so I haven't had to time to post it. I'm only able to post this now, because I have a brief respite from the usual scramble. Next week is going to be a bit of an anomaly, so I'm hoping to have a little more time to devote to some writing. I'm hoping to be able to post another chapter (or two) next week sometime, because I'm going to be out of town and away from my writing (😢) for the next week after that.

So what's next? Can Nickolas make it to Cassandra in time, or is he simply too injured? I mean, at this point, he's been beaten and shot up quite a bit. No spoilers, but the book is working its way toward the finale. Honestly, I'm beyond excited for you guys to get to read that. Just gonna say. I'm hoping it will be filled with all sorts of surprises for you 😉.