Page 83 of The Big Bad Duke

It was reserved for full-fledged members—not mere lackeys or servants, and certainly not victims.

Perhaps they used a different color for their women, or maybe it signified rank within the Brotherhood’s hierarchy.

He knew there was an entire ceremony before one received it—rituals, oaths, a number of dirty tasks that had to be completed.

Perhaps—a dark thought entered his mind—a black fist was just a stepping stone.

Perhaps he was the final task that would turn her mark red.

“What is that?” he asked, his voice hoarse with shock and growing fury.

“What are you talking about?” She tried harder to swivel from his grasp to see what he was seeing, but his grip was iron-strong now. “Gideon, you’re frightening me.”

“The mark!” he barked. “You have a black fist on your skin. You’re one of them.”

“One of whom?” Her voice was steady, but he could hear the underlying tremor of fear.

“Don’t play games with me.” He released her abruptly and strode toward the shore, water streaming from his naked body. He began yanking on his clothes, jerking fabric over wet skin. “Don’t you dare play innocent now.”

She followed his lead, scrambling out of the water and reaching for her discarded clothing with shaking hands.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, pulling her wet shirt over her body. It clung to her, concealing nothing. “That mark is a brand they used on me. Like branding cattle. Marking property.”

“No, it’s not.” He whirled on her, his shirt only half-buttoned. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve lied enough already. I’ve gutted enough Brotherhood scum to know lackeys don’t get the mark. Only the elite do. Only those who’ve sworn the blood oath.”

“I’m not a member!” Her voice rose in desperation as she yanked on her breeches. “I told you the truth. The men who abducted me and kept me prisoner did this. Maybe so they could track me down if I escaped or for some other sick reason.”

But he was barely listening now. His mind raced, piecing together all the inconsistencies he’d ignored, all the warning signs he’d dismissed—because he’d wanted to believe her. Because he’d wanted her.

What a fool he’d been. A complete and utter idiot.

How had he believed her so easily when she’d spun that tale about being an innocent victim? She’d tried to kill him. At least three times that he could count. Four, if he included the fire.

Surely that had been her doing as well. And when she saw he’d survived—when she realized her plan had failed—she’d tied herself to the banister to maintain her cover, to continue playing the helpless victim.

She was an excellent actress. Good enough to fool him completely.

“You poisoned me,” he said through gritted teeth, and she went completely still. That reaction was confirmation enough.

“And that night, your supposed carriage accident… That wasn’t an accident, was it? It was a setup.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she murmured quietly, “Yes. But I couldn’t go through with it.”

He let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humor. As if her failure to finish the job made any difference. She was still an assassin, still a willing accomplice of the Brotherhood that had destroyed his life.

She might have lived under the Cardinal’s roof, but not as a prisoner.

What had she said last night? “I was basically a harlot.”

Perhaps she’d been more than that. Perhaps she’d been the Cardinal’s kept woman, his secret weapon, trained to seduce and kill.

“Last night. The fire. Was that you?” His voice was laced with a low growl.

She faltered. He could see the internal struggle on her face—the war between truth and self-preservation.

“Gideon—”

“Was. That.You?” He spoke each word slowly, menacingly, leaving her no room for denial.