Her Beast in Brighton (Bastards of Brighton, Book 1)

What if the beast you are running from is your prince charming?

When Lady Calliope Turner opens a candle shop in Brighton, all she wants is to escape her wicked stepmother, two vile stepsisters, and a plot to marry her off. She never dreamed she would witness a crime one night on her way to meet her merchant. What’s a woman to do? Run away, of course! And pray she never gets caught. Only, in her haste, she not only draws notice, but she loses a very damning slipper.

Maxen Fury, one of the seven bastard sons of the Duke of Crane, also known as the ruthless beast of Brighton’s underworld, rules his territories with an iron fist. His only goal is simple: to build an empire with his brothers so powerful that they never have to beg, bargain, or bleed again. But when a secret meeting goes awry and his newest tenant proves to be bright, defiant, and far more dangerous than she appears, Maxen finds himself facing the most inconvenient complication of his life.

As suspicion ignites into fascination and danger closes in, Calliope must decide whether she can trust the very man who hunts her . . . and Maxen must confront the one thing he never planned for—a woman who dares to see the man beneath the monster.

Can a man forged in darkness learn to protect the light he wants to claim? Or will his world devour her first?

Chapter One

Calliope hated the night. She shivered, pressing herself tightly against the wall of the building she hid against. Why on earth had she ever thought it a good idea to pick up her package in the dead of night? Not that she had any choice in the matter. Mr. Rollings had sent a request to meet at this location at a most ungodly hour.

Midnight.

What an unfortunate change of schedule.

And what ought to have taken ten minutes had stretched into thirty, leaving her twenty minutes late, thanks to the winding streets of the Lanes, which all looked the same at night. It had taken a while to orient herself.

Nevertheless, she ought to have known better.

This did not fit the quiet, uneventful life she had envisioned. All she wanted was peace, which begged the question, whatever prompted the man to ask this of her? She tugged her cap lower, clutching her satchel tightly over her pounding heart.

Deep breaths, Calliope.

Thank sun and stars she’d purchased a male outfit for this meeting. She might have to run. Fast.

She peeked from behind the wall to where her Mr. Rollings was conversing with two very large men, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief. She couldn’t see his expression clearly, but she could practically feel the tension flooding from him. Other customers, no doubt, since she’d been late. She wondered what the problem was that led him to meet with them at this hour. And how long it would take them to go away so she could talk to Mr. Rollings.

Something about the exchange set her nerves on edge. The looming figures seemed to be one with the night. Carved from the shadows themselves. Their features were even more impossible to distinguish with their caps pulled low over their heads, nor did their statures seem even remotely familiar.

I should have brought Prince.

But then, it was probably a blessing that she hadn’t. He’d growl and perhaps even attack when threatened. No, she should have brought her pistol, but she’d completely forgotten about it!

Stars.

All this over some French oil. Very well, orange blossom oil, plus some other scents, distilled in the French manner, finer than anything she could source at home. More than that, she loved using this particular oil to create her own uniquely scented candles. It made her feel closer to her mother, who had enjoyed the art of candle-making and favored French scents. After her passing, her father had arranged lessons for Calliope. She had loved those lessons. However, she didn’t love meeting at this hour to collect her oil.

And she hated the dark.

Loathed nothing more.

Darkness reminded her of them. Duvessa and her daughters. Black as sin and just as merciless.

Nothing good ever happened when all the lights blew out. A sentiment once again proved right in her current predicament. But this was no attic. Every shadow here posed a potential threat.

She should never have come.

But she had placed explicit trust in Mr. Rollings even though she’d only known him for a few short months. After all, Mr. Fitz, her father’s solicitor and her guardian angel who had helped her escape, had made the acquaintance. He’d handled all the terms beforehand, and he would never put her life in danger. So when she’d received Mr. Rollings’s message, she had ignored all the “the Vikings have arrived” bells echoing through her bones.

Fie. Fie. Fie.

For the love of wax! How did I get myself into such a horrible situation?

A blistering curse rang out, followed by a dark voice filled with fury, “What the devil do you mean the shipment is missing?”

Calliope flinched.

Exactly what she feared. Nothing good happened in the dark. Ever.

“I do not know, my lord,” Mr. Rollings stuttered.

“Don’t bloody call me that,” the same man snapped, dangerous, and way too close. “I’m not a lord. I’m Death if you don’t spill the truth about my shipment.”

Case in point.

The other man just watched silently.

And what are you just standing around for, Calliope?

Run!

But her feet couldn’t move. Could she just leave Mr. Rollings to his fate?

“What do you want to do with him?” The furious one asked the silent one.

A beat of silence, then, “Deal with him.”

Calliope shivered at the low, gravelly voice that carried over to her. Like he hadn’t used it in years, or only ever used it to growl threats. Calm. Deadly. Final. The impact lashed across her nerves and lodged beneath her breastbone, driving in deep.

Even worse, she felt marked by it.

He was the leader here. His words were law.

The furious one stepped forward and a fist shot out. Mr. Rollings dropped to the ground, the bone-jarring echo joining that of her gasp.

Her hands flew to cover her mouth as two heads swiveled her way.

Sensation deserted her limbs.

The man who’d watched Mr. Rollings being knocked senseless, the one with the deeper voice, stepped forward. “Who’s there? Show yourself. Obedience begets lenience, resistance begets wrath.”

Like you showed Mr. Rollings? Not in this lifetime!

Her body snapped into motion, and she bolted in the direction—she hoped—of her shop, only to snag on her own steps and pitch forward. Then to her horror, she promptly tripped over her feet, crashing to the ground hard. The impact jarred her bones, a low oof escaping when her palms scraped over loose stones, biting through leather gloves.

Calliope! You foot-clod!

She scurried back to her feet, snatched up the satchel that had landed beside her, and dashed down the alley with all her might, ignoring her aching knees.

Curses ripped through the dark.

Do not look back.

She clenched her jaw and pushed on.

Who were these men? She hadn’t been in Brighton long. Almost three months in total. The first two were spent in small, rented lodgings, planning and preparing every detail of her new life. The past fortnight had at last seen her open the doors to her shop, above which she now lived. Before that, it had taken years of whispered schemes and secret hopes to reach this point—to flee Duvessa and her despicable plan to wed her to the loathsome Lord Flemmington. Calliope had learned the hard way that people don’t rescue girls like her. If they, she, wanted freedom, she’d have to claim it for herself.

Only with the secret help of a few loyal servants and the ever-resourceful Mr. Fitz had she managed to escape and begin anew in this seaside town.

Now her lungs burned.

Why did she decide on Brighton again?

There were other, more remote towns Duvessa avoided with a passion, too. Just admit it, Calliope. You wanted to live near the ocean. And since she never debuted, and rarely met others, she didn’t need to worry that she’d be recognized. Even her own family had abandoned her to Duvessa since her father’s death. Some she hadn’t seen since her mother’s.

A quiet life.

A comfortable life.

Hidden away and free from Duvessa and her horrid stepsisters.

Not dashing through the misty, dark streets from brigands who might harm her if she were caught! Fortunately, she had already regained her sense of direction, and didn’t dare slow until she reached her shop. She nervously glanced over her shoulder while she fished for the key and jammed it into the lock with trembling hands.

Come on!

The key rattled as she attempted to unlock the door, joined by voices echoing somewhere through the streets, followed by approaching footsteps growing closer.

The beat of her heart sped up.

Don’t look.

Fie this! She should have ignored Mr. Rollings’s request!

The door gave way, and she staggered inside, nearly sprawling in her haste. Calliope slammed it shut, and the moment the bolt slid into place relief struck her, dizzying. She leaned back, spine pressed to the wood, breath coming fast. A second later, she slid to the floor.

She’d evaded those men. By some miracle.

Her attention caught on the flickering candle on the counter.

Drat! She scurried forward on her hands and feet to snuff out the light with the tips of her fingers. The room plunged into total darkness, wrapping around her like a well-worn cloak.

It’s all right, Calliope. Just a little longer.

Her gaze flicked to the narrow-curtained doorway leading to the workroom, where a stairwell spiraled up to her private rooms. She didn’t know how, but her legs made it to her living quarters in two parts determination and one part daze. Not until her arms were around Prince did her mind begin to clear.

He licked her face, and a bubble of laughter escaped from her lips. Just short of hysterical. No, most definitely hysterical.

“Dear God,” she breathed between the bouts. “What did I just witness?” A kidnapping? A murder? Surely not. And yet she could not deny the sight of Mr. Rollings falling to the ground. Utterly terrifying! Was Mr. Rollings still alive? And what about her oil? She hated to even entertain the unbidden thought, but if those men found her goods, they’d find her, correct? If they found her . . .

Do not even entertain such a thought!

But the image of those men, hounds, sniffing at the package and allowing others to sniff and track her, still burst into her mind.

What would they do to her if they caught her?

They hadn’t.

Yet.

Her ears strained for any noises that might indicate the two big men had caught onto her and her shop. What had Mr. Rollings said when he’d delivered her first purchase?

Take care, Miss Turner. Brighton is run by beasts.

She’d laughed it off then, believed the older man an overly cautious tradesman. But now . . . now she wasn’t laughing.

She had escaped the night. But it had seen her now. And she had a horrifying feeling it would not forget her.

Was it true? Was Brighton run by beasts? Had she encountered them tonight? No matter how much she wished she could unsee what she’d witnessed, she could not.

“It’s fine,” she said to Prince after the beat of her heart finally started to settle, rubbing his back. “They didn’t catch me.” Her gaze moved to the window, and she slowly rose, padding over to peek through the window to the street below.

Not a soul stirred.

She let out a deep breath of relief. So far, she’d been remarkably lucky. If they didn’t know who had witnessed their deeds, she was in no imminent danger. However . . . “Should I move to another town?”

No, that wouldn’t do. Mr. Fitz had paid six months’ rent in advance, and apparently her landlord had made it clear that the payment would not be returned no matter what. Plus, her secret inheritance was generous, but not an endless pit of wealth. She and Prince were stuck here for the time being.

But what about Mr. Rollings?

You can’t help him, Calliope.

She studied the street below. If there was one thing Calliope had learned from her time with Duvessa and her daughters, it was that the world favored those who looked out for themselves. She couldn’t afford to dwell on Mr. Rollings. Her life, her survival, depended on her focusing solely on herself. However, she couldn’t do nothing at all. Her conscience would haunt her forever. So, she’d pen a letter to Mr. Fitz. He might be able to assist Mr. Rollings where she could not.

Her breath hitched as two shadows moved into the street. She jerked from the window, pressing her whole body against the wall, heart leaping several beats. After a moment, she cautiously craned her neck to confirm that she wasn’t imagining things.

Oh sun and stars, she wasn’t.

Two men tracked the street below. She recognized the caps on their heads instantly. The air froze between her lungs and throat as her gaze remained fixed on them until their silhouettes cleared the street.

Calliope wanted to scream into a pillow.

I’m sorry, Mr. Rollings, but there is nothing I can do for you right now.

***

Maxen Fury loved the night.

Darkness wasn’t just where he thrived, it was where he ruled.

On the other hand, he hated trouble.

And trouble always occurred in threes. They caused complications. And if there was one thing that he, one of the seven bastard sons of the Duke of Crane, wanted to avoid at all costs, it was complications. They had a way of turning deadly. He’d learned that the hard way, long before he’d been old enough to understand the cost.

Damn it all to hell.

He should have known this night would gather into a pile of shite the moment he caught sight of the new shop right next to his bolt-hole this morning—all bright and sweet.

Dagger, that arse, who managed all their properties, had rented out that blasted one without his permission while he was busy setting up a warehouse in Worthing for the past fortnight. His brother also hadn’t given him any additional information other than he’d been too gloomy and should enjoy some freshness.

He still wanted to throttle the man.

How could the arse be so careless? That shop—that space—was where they hid their barrels. What would happen if they required the gunpowder?

He pushed the thought aside with a curse. No use lamenting over it now. The deed was done and could not be undone for the time being.

Maxen scowled at the man sprawled on the ground.

Now this.

What the bloody hell had he done to deserve this bloody mess?

And what the hell had he just heard? His sharp gaze followed Dagger’s to the shadows beyond the buildings where the unmistakable sound had come from.

“Someone is watching us,” Dagger said darkly.

Bloody fine.

“Who’s there?” Maxen called out, and then added for good measure, “Show yourself. Obedience begets lenience, resistance begets wrath.”

Silence.

Maxen motioned to the man sprawled on the ground. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll go have a look.” He set off in the direction of the noise without waiting for his brother’s response, cursing his luck. He hadn’t wanted to come out tonight to meet this fool, Rollings. But he’d had no other choice. He ran these streets. He did the sweeping if there were messes to clear. Especially missing cargo messes.

And when there was proverbial blood in the water, Maxen always hunted.

He strode briskly through the dark, his whole body on high alert, a scowl forming when he heard another sound. This one almost like an oof, followed by footsteps fleeing, confirming they hadn’t been mistaken.

A little rat.

He broke into a sprint, a slew of curses filling his mind as his joints suddenly protesting the sudden charge. He couldn’t let some gutter-born sneak slip into the cracks. Not when the possibility existed that it might be an enemy spy.

“Stop!” Maxen growled as a small figure in the distance came into view.

The sneak showed no signs of heeding his warning and continued to scurry away. The darkness obscured his vision, but they appeared to be a lad—a child—who probably hadn’t even sprouted facial hair yet. That didn’t mean much. Children growing up on the streets oftentimes couldn’t be considered children at all. Boys and girls grew up fast in the gutter. Sly. Cunning.

Just ask him.

No, this wouldn’t be just a boy.

A spy.

They had to be.

His gut had never been wrong before. Shite. Where the hell was Reaper? He should have been in the shadows, keeping an eye out for any unwanted nuisances. How had his brother missed this little pest?

Another sibling who could use a good throttling.

The shadow vanished down an alleyway, and a blur shot beneath him. Bloody hell! Maxen jolted, boots slipping as a hellish cat streaked underfoot. He barely avoided stumbling and planting his face into the dirt. Another foul curse left his lips when he whipped his gaze up again and could no longer tell which alley the lad had darted into. “Damn it!”

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration forming a poisonous pit in his stomach.

A low chuckle filled the street.

Reaper emerged from shadows, amusement animating his entire face. A dark cloud instantly pulled at Maxen’s brows. “What the devil are you laughing at?”

His brother shrugged. “You lost your prey. A first.”

Ah, yes. Trouble always occurred in threes.

Confound it. The last thing he had time for was a little rodent on the loose. “The thing was slippery,” he said begrudgingly.

“You’re getting old, brother.”

Maxen scoffed. “Do not talk about my age. Where were you? You were supposed to have our backs. You missed the boy before I did.”

“I did have your back. No harm came to you, did it?”

“You call a rat escaping no harm?” Maxen started forward and chose an alleyway he thought the lad might have darted into, but there were so many he was blindly guessing at this point. He hated guessing.

“Don’t be sour. That specific spot was cut off from my vision.”

Not good enough. “You should have scouted the area. Patrolled it.”

“I did. There was no one when I passed that section. Your mouse couldn’t have been here for long.”

Meaning they shouldn’t have overheard or witnessed too much, but they still overheard and witnessed enough. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“So we silence the person.” Reaper said with another careless shrug, following him with silent steps. “Are you sure this is the correct alley?”

“You tell me. I stumbled.”

“My apologies, frère, I was watching you stumble.”

Maxen grunted, fingers itching to wrap around his brother’s neck. As if calling him brother in French would spare him his ire. Fine. It might. But to silence their little crack-crawler, they had to find him first, and there were too bloody many cracks and all of them were dark.

“Is now the time to admit I can’t claim to regret not keeping an eye on the alley since I got to catch you in a cat tangle?”

Maxen glared at this brother, who flashed him a grin. The arse lifted a hand, a shoe dangling from his finger. “They did, however, leave this behind.”

His brow shot upward. “A shoe?”

“A woman’s slipper to be exact.”

His gaze fixated on the feminine item. “So it wasn’t a lad after all.”

Reaper tossed the slipper over and Maxen snatched it midair. He turned it over in his palm grimly, the imprint of a heel barely fading.

A woman. A bold one. A foolish one.

Something in him, something primal, something absolutely foreign, whispered: Find her. Find her right now.

“A girl would be my guess, yes, but what girl creeps around in the shadows in the dead of night?”

Even more guesses. He hated guessing. “One from that wretched club of aristocrats playing at smuggling.”

“They were dealt with.”

“Organizations like that aren’t always fully handled. There are always foxes that wish to become wolves.” As if he needed any more hindrances. He was building an untouchable empire. For that, he needed more power and more blunt than any enemy. He could not have weaknesses. Could not have rats slipping through cracks.

“I don’t know. The way this person fled, perhaps they weren’t wearing it,” Reaper pointed out. “It could have slipped from the bag they carried.”

Maxen grunted. “You don’t think it was one of those blue-blooded feather heads?”

Reaper stepped up to meet his pace. “Those women are aristocrats. Could they give us both the slip like this?”

Good point. “So a spy, then. But who would send a girl?”

“Him.”

A shiver shot down Maxen’s spine.

Him?

No. It could absolutely not be. He wouldn’t meddle in their affairs. It would mean war if that were the case. Again. The late Duke of Crane, their father, had been the cruelest blackguard alive. The current duke, their half-brother, was a recluse, and no obstacle to them. He might even become an ally, albeit a reluctant one, in the future. “It’s not Crane.”

Reaper shrugged, a silver coin appearing between his fingers. He rolled it lazily over his knuckles. “Could also be the other him.”

Sirius?

That man, their uncle on their father’s side, had been “reported” dead ten years ago. Only they knew it to be a bold lie. Their uncle was as bad as the late duke. Certainly cunning. An outright coward in Maxen’s view. He had never coveted his brother’s title. No, that would have placed him under the scrutiny of the man he feared most, the Crown, and society as a whole. So he set his sights elsewhere.

Sirus Faiththorne didn’t have the spine to build an empire of his own. He was a vulture who fed off the work of stronger men. What he wanted, he took in the dark and had no qualms hiring cutthroats to do his dirty deeds. The man stood for the one thing they stood violently against: killing as a means to an end.

Maxen felt a throb in his temples coming on.

They’d shipped him off in a crate years ago, bound for the East and never meant to return. It was the fastest way to deal with persistent pests without crushing them beneath a boot. Without blood.

But if he had found a way to claw himself back . . .

God help them all.

If there was one thing Maxen had learned in all his thirty-two years of life, one couldn’t fight a phantom in the shadows. Until he saw the blackguard’s face with his own damn eyes, he would not believe their uncle had returned.

“Let us hope it’s not him.” Maxen’s grip tightened on the slipper. “I want this girl found.”

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