The swordsman’s blade slid up, gaining an inch.

Richard pushed back, his arms shaking from the strain. Holding the younger man’s deadweight was squeezing the last drops of strength from his tired body.

Another inch. The Sud’s narrow blade slid along Richard’s sword. He saw it move but was powerless to stop it.

The sword cut his left biceps, slicing through the muscle in an agonizing slow burn.

Sonovabitch. There was no way out of this position that didn’t end with his being hurt. Even if he could summon enough strength to shove the younger man back, the effort would leave him exposed for a counterstrike, and with his back to the wall, he had no way to maneuver.

The Sud grinned.

If he lost, Charlotte would die. He would fail, and Sophie would be left alone with her demons. He had to kill the other man.

He would endure pain if it meant he would win.

Richard dropped his blade. The Sud’s sword, abruptly free from resistance, slid forward and cut deeper across his arm, biting into the bone in a flash of pain. Thrown off-balance, the Sud pitched forward, and Richard hammered his fist into the man’s throat. The swordsman rocked back from the blow. Richard tore the sword from his opponent’s hand, flashed, coating it in his magic, and thrust it upward, under the rib cage. The blade carved through the lungs and heart like a knife through a soft pear. The bloody end emerged from the Sud’s breast and sliced into the underside of his chin.

The man opened his mouth, surprise making his face look young . . . Blood poured out from between his teeth, drenching them in red. Richard pushed him back, and the Sud fell, his unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling.

Richard slumped forward, trying to catch his breath. His left arm hung useless, the gash in his muscle burning as if someone had poured molten lead into wound. He stared at the man by his feet. What was he, twenty-five? Twenty-eight? His whole life ahead of him, good looks, talent, and now he was dead. Such a waste.

Richard gritted his teeth and looked at the cut. Blood drenched his skin and dripped on the floor. He didn’t have much of it to spare as it was.

Gods, it hurt like hell. He breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to separate himself from the pain, forced his face into a calm mask, and turned to Charlotte.

She sagged on the overturned chest, her shoulders slumped, her spine bent. “Let me see it.”

“No.” If she saw it, she would try to heal him, and he couldn’t let her do that.

“My lord—”

“I said no.”

“—don’t be a baby.”

A baby? He ripped a sleeve off the Sud’s shirt and wrapped it around his arm. “There. It’s fixed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He picked up his sword. His left arm felt like it was on fire, and it hurt to move.

“Richard, don’t ignore me. You just wrapped a filthy rag over an open wound, which is surely infected now.”

He walked over to her. “I’m fine. You’re spent.”

“At least let me look at it!”

“Are you well enough to go upstairs?”

She pushed herself up from the chest, that familiar ice flashing in her eyes. “Without my magic and with my eyes closed, I’m a better field medic than you are. You will let me look at your wound and dress it properly instead of wrapping some soiled sleeve around it. It will take two minutes, then we can go upstairs and hunt down the bookkeeper. Or we can do it your way, and you can faint from blood loss, in which case we’re both dead because I can’t carry you or protect you. Your arm, my lord. Now.”

He turned, presenting her with his left arm. It was easier than arguing. She pulled a bag from under her cloak, opened it, and a took out a plastic first-aid kit, complete with the Broken’s familiar red cross on it. Charlotte opened the kit, took out a small vial, and handed it to him. “Drink this.”

He pulled the cork out with his teeth and gulped the bitter liquid. Cold rushed through him, down the injured muscle, right to the source of pain. A welcome numbness came. It felt heavenly.

Charlotte splashed something on the cut and began wrapping his arm. “He cut the bone.”

“Mhm.”

“This stone-faced routine isn’t necessary. I know the pain is excruciating.”

“If my rolling around on the ground and crying would make things easier for you, by all means I will oblige.” It finally sank in. He had won and lived, and so did she.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “We’re lucky his sword was so sharp. The cut is very clean. If you give me an hour or two to recover, I will heal this. Was it necessary to let him slash you?”

Argh. “Yes, it was. He was very good, and I didn’t have a choice about it. Since when are you a connoisseur of martial arts?” He was actually arguing that he was a lesser swordsman. How did it even make sense?

“Since my life started depending on them.”

“The next time I’m in a fight for my life, I’ll be sure to ask your advice, my lady.”

“If you do, I’ll advise you to not throw away your sword.”

He almost growled, but it would’ve frightened her, and he held himself in check. An infuriating, impossible woman.

She tied the final knot and wrapped white tape around the bandage. “What’s next?”

“We go upstairs.”

“Very well.” She leaned toward him to tie a sling around his shoulder. Her hair brushed against his cheek. Desire stabbed him, sudden and overwhelming. His irritation only made him want her more.

Charlotte slid his arm into the sling and put the kit back into the bag. “If you promise not to get yourself cut or skewered with anyone else’s sword, I promise not to faint.”

Delightful. “I’d be a fool not to take that generous offer.”

They started up the stairs, agonizingly slow.

“Did you really think I would win?” he asked.

She turned to look at him, gray eyes so beautiful on her lovely face. “Of course.”

Richard imagined stepping forward, pulling her to him with his uninjured hand, and kissing her right there on the stairs. In his mind, her lips were warm and inviting. In his mind, she loved it and kissed him back.

His mind was a place of many dreams, most of them dead and abandoned. She’s walking next to you, he told himself. She saw the true you, and she’s still willing to care for you. Enjoy what little you have while you have it.

They made it into the hallway. A faint light painted the floor under the door on their right. Richard pointed at the wall by the door. Charlotte pressed her back against it.

He kicked in the door, spinning to the side. Bullets peppered the opposite wall, biting chunks out of the plaster. He’d seen the inside of the room for a fraction of a second, but it was enough: a red-haired woman sat behind a desk and a tall man stood next to her, armed with one of the Broken’s guns. Richard yanked a throwing knife out of the sheath on his belt, thrust himself into the doorway, and hurled the blade. The knife bit into the gunman’s throat. The man stumbled back and fell.

The woman stared at him with cold, clear eyes. She had a heart-shaped face, with the high, contoured cheekbones bluebloods often found desirable. Her flame red hair coiled around her head in a complex braid. Her tunic was silk, cut in what was assuredly the latest style. An oval pendant hung from her neck on a thin gold chain: a pale, aquamarine stone the size of his thumbnail. She looked to be near Charlotte’s age.

Behind her were two large windows. Rows of shelves supported an assortment of books on the right wall while a large white limestone fireplace occupied the left. An arithmetika, a magic-powered calculator, sat on her desk, next to stacks of paper. No weapons appeared to be in the vicinity.

“We found the bookkeeper,” Richard said. “Come inside, Charlotte.”

She walked into the room. She saw the dead gunman. Her eyebrows rose briefly, then Charlotte sank into the nearest chair.

“If you had a knife, why didn’t you throw it at the swordsman downstairs?”

“It would’ve been a waste. He would’ve knocked it aside.” Richard nodded at the woman. “Place both hands on the desk.”

She did so. Delicate fingers, adorned with thin gold rings studded with stones. Wealth and taste were sometimes unlikely bedfellows, but in this case, they were clearly bosom buddies. A familiar anger flared in him.

“You’re wealthy, probably well educated,” he said. “Juliana Academy, perhaps.” Juliana’s was considered the best place for blueblood girls with money to receive their education. He’d became very familiar with Adrianglian school selection for Lark’s sake. He shouldn’t have bothered. His niece shot down all of his careful choices.

“Winters College,” Charlotte said. “Her tunic perfectly matches the shade of her eyes. Juliana’s encourages more creativity.”

The woman arched an eyebrow and looked Charlotte over, pausing on her dirty, bloodstained clothes. His urge to injure her shot into overdrive.

“And where did you study, if I may ask?”

“I had personal tutorship from one of the first ten,” Charlotte said, her voice glacially cold and cutting with scorn like a knife. “Don’t try to belittle me; you’re hopelessly outclassed. I see shortcomings in your every single aspect, from your lack of taste to your rotten morality. You’ve involved yourself in the basest of crimes. You facilitated murder, rape, and the torture of children. Your conduct is unbecoming a peer of realm.”

He almost winced.

The woman drew back, her cheeks turning red. “Please, spare me the rhetoric. We’re a higher breed. You know this as well as I do. You simply put on blinders and call it altruism. I call it willful ignorance. Those of us who are blueblood became so because our ancestors rose from the ranks of unwashed mobs. They were the thanes, the chiefs, the leaders of their people. The betters of the rest by virtue of their abilities and will. We’re their descendants. They climbed to power, and we maintain it. It’s that simple. These people you’re accusing me of crimes against live like animals. In many cases, being stripped of their freedom is the best thing that ever happened to them.”