Without her, he wasn’t whole.
Without her, he was nothing.
Almost there.
He jerked to a stop in front of a blue building with a lion’s head carved into the stone above the door.
The Lyon’s Den.
Blake dismounted in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. He tossed the reins to a stunned stable boy and sprinted up the steps to the infamous establishment. His heart pounded, the blood roaring in his ears, drowning out the sound of everything else except his harsh breathing.
Rosilee was already inside, about to make the worst mistake of both their lives.
The moment he entered, the doormen eyed him, their arms crossed over their chests, but Blake ignored them. The place was quieter than he expected—but then, his heart still pounded in his ears, blocking out most sound. He glanced about the entrance room, his eyes falling on several doors.
“Sir?” one of the doormen said calmly.
He must look a bit unhinged. He was. He also didn’t hesitate, he strode straight for the door to his left and threw it open, shouting, “Rosilee!”
“Hold!” the man shouted, rushing after him.
Blake didn’t dare stop. He tore through the room—a gentleman’s lounge—and a smoking room before finally slamming open a door that brought him to the entrance of the gambling hall. She was here. Somewhere. Perhaps even making a deal as he was trying to find her.
“Rosilee!” His bellow cut through the chatter of the room, drawing the attention of everyone present. Women in the gallery above looked up from their conversations, and even the men negotiating at the tables paused, eyebrows raised at his intrusion. But Blake didn’t care about their reactions—only hers.
“Where the devil is she?” Blake shouted to no one in particular and everyone at the same time. “If you do not tell me now, I shall make it so that you are never able to speak again!”
No one answered. They all looked at him as though he had lost his mind. A hand clamped down on his shoulder—the doorman—but he shrugged him off. “Do not bloody touch me,” he growled.
Something formidable must have shown on his face because the man instantly backed off.
Blake cursed, and panic clawed at him. Where was she?
Please, don’t let me be too late.
His pulse quickened, and he took a step forward, about to shout her name again when a soft gasp met his ears, and he swore he heard his name on her lips.
He looked up to the second floor.
There.
She appeared at the balustrade of the gallery, looking down at him with wide, startled eyes. Their gazes locked across the distance. For a moment, everything stilled. Time stretched, and all the noise, all the urgency of his pursuit, fell away. It was just him and her.
Just like it was meant to be.
His heart clenched painfully in his chest.
But then her expression cleared, the fleeting shock gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Why did you come here?”
He deserved that tone. “For you.”
She shook her head. “You are too late, Blake. Go home.” Then she turned, walking swiftly toward an inner chamber, determined to continue on this destructive path.
“No!” He rushed to the stairs. He didn’t care if every lord and lady in London was watching. He didn’t care if the entire city knew what a fool he was being. To hell with everyone and everything.
Before he could reach the stairs, two burly guards blocked his path.
“Step aside,” he bit out.
