//CLARA//

I sat naked at my desk, Eleanor’s diary tucked back into its hiding place.

Behind me, Casimir slept soundly.

I glanced over my shoulder at him, tangled in my sheets, one arm thrown over his head, the other outstretched toward the empty space where I should have been. His chest rose and fell steadily. The moonlight caught the dark hair trailing down his stomach.

We’d barely made it through the corridors.

His coat had been slung over my shoulders, my dress bunched under his arm, his shirt half-buttoned. We’d stumbled through the servant’s entrance, giggling like teenagers, shushing each other between kisses.

The moment the door to my room clicked shut, the restraint snapped. We didn’t make it to the bed the first time. Or the second. We were tearing at each other again. Making love again and again until our limbs felt like lead and the moon began to fade.

I climbed in beside him, moving carefully so as not to wake him. It was useless.

The moment my skin touched his, he stirred, a grumble rattling in his chest as he hooked an arm around my waist and pulled me against him.

"Mmm," he murmured.

"Go back to sleep."

He was already gone.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

The next morning didn’t start with birdsong or the soft chime of a clock.

Pain pinched my nipples. Wet heat simultaneously settled between my legs, and a tongue lapping slowly through my folds.

"Ah—!"

My breath hitched, my fingers digging into the mattress only to find Casimir’s face between my legs, feasting on me like I was the only thing on the menu.

"Casimir..." I gasped, my hips instinctively bucking against his mouth. "What the hell?"

He didn’t stop, his tongue swirling around my clit before he looked up, eyes dark and wicked.

"Getting my fill before breakfast," he rasped, gravelly. "Good morning, little bird."

His dark hair mussed. His fingers rolled my nipples again, the pinch sending lightning down to where his tongue was already circling my center.

My back arching off the mattress as an involuntary moan ripped my throat. I was already wet and aching and he didn’t even give me a chance to argue. His tongue worked nonstop, flicking, circling, then flattening to press firm pressure before returning to tease.

"Oh, god." My hands finding his hair, pulling without direction. "Is it always going to be like this?"

"Yes, if I have any say in it."

He chuckled, crawling up the length of me.

His heavy weight pinning me down, and drove into me in one hard, swift motion.

It all happened at once, my brain still too fogged by sleep to process it. Though my body seemed to have been set in auto-pilot.

I tried to scream his name, but he swallowed the sound, his mouth crashing into mine as the pace accelerated with a brutal, morning-heat intensity until both of us had become undone.

I lay there, catching my breath, his arm draped over my waist.

"Well?" he murmured against my shoulder.

"Well what?"

"You never answered me. Last night."

I turned my head, meeting his eyes. Hopeful. Terrified.

"Yes," I said.

His brows drew together. "Yes?"

"Yes, I’ll run away with you. Yes, I’ll marry you or elope or whatever the term is. Yes, I’ll spend the rest of my life making you regret every decision that led you to me."

I kissed his dumbstruck mouth. "Yes, Casimir. Yes. It’s a yes."

He kissed me back, deep, slow, and tender.

"That’s all I needed to hear."

Then he rolled me onto my stomach and took me from behind one last time before the morning slipped away. Quick and dirty. His hand over my mouth to keep me quiet.

By noon, I was standing in front of the mirror with throbbing soreness between my legs while making sure my dress was covering whatever it is that needed covering.

"I’m going to see Oliver," I told Casimir as I pinned a hat to my head.

"Now?"

"Yes," I nodded. "I can’t stay here. Aunt Cornelia is currently rallying a coup for the entourage."

He didn’t love the idea, but he agreed nonetheless. "Be careful."

I expected him to argue. He didn’t. Which surprised me.

I saw it in his eyes then—trust. He was letting me go. Not without my chaperone and the two shadows he’d assigned to tail me, but still. He was letting me breathe.

He stood from his desk and crossed to me. We were alone in the drawing room. He’d been working here instead of his study, as if a few corridors were too far.

He pulled me by the waist and leaned down to steal a chaste kiss from my lips.

I stiffened. The archway was open. Anyone could walk through. Anyone could see.

But he didn’t let go.

"Casimir." I chided him, my gaze flicking to the archway.

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "I’m at the point where I no longer care, little bird."

"Save it for when you have a plan to get us out of here without causing much trouble." I kept my voice low.

"You are trouble." He tapped my nose.

"I am not. Mostly." I bit back a smile.

Perhaps. Maybe. I was learning to live with it.

He looked amused, then settled for pressing a kiss to my forehead. His hand, though, lingered on my waist a heartbeat longer.

Aunt Cornelia’s voice was already echoing through the foyer as she prepared for the afternoon tea to select my entourage, which I call a group of high-society harpies meant to watch my every move.

I slipped out the side entrance before the old witch could hunt me down and went on my merry way.

The warehouse had transformed.

The last time I’d seen it, the space had been the ghost of a failed textile mill haunting every corner.

Now it hummed. Workers moved between the machines, their sleeves rolled up, their hands black with ink. The Linotype stood at the center, casting lines of type with a rhythmic clatter.

And Oliver was elbow-deep in it.

"You’re actually working," I said.

He looked up from the casting mechanism, his face smeared with grease, his hair wild.

"Eleanor!" He wiped his hands on a rag and crossed to me, grinning. "I didn’t think you’d make it."

"Casimir let me out of my cage."

His grin flickered before he recovered. "Your shadows are new."

I glanced back at the two men flanking the entrance.

"Security," I said. "And a chaperone. Apparently, I can’t be trusted alone."

Oliver laughed. "Can you blame him?"

Well...not really.

He showed me the sketches first, new designs for the feeder mechanism, the matrix return system, the hot-metal pump. His handwriting sprawled across the margins.

"The speed has nearly doubled," he said, tapping a column of figures. "We’re casting four lines to every one the old way. Mr. Chamberlain’s people are impressed."

I scanned the ledgers next. The numbers were solid, better actually. The advance from Casimir had settled the debts. The new orders were already covering the operating costs.

"We need to focus on the supply chain," I said, running my finger down a column of copper prices. "The raw material costs are climbing. If we lock in contracts now—"

"Already in motion." He pulled out another folder. "I’ve been talking to three different foundries. We’ll have competitive bids by end of month."

I looked up at him. "You’ve been busy."

"I’ve been free." He said it simply, without bitterness. "Turns out, not being in a prison cell does wonders for productivity."

It was a grim joke, but I’ll take it.

We talked for another hour, about the workforce, about the training program he’d started, about the new apprentice who’d shown promise.

Beatrice’s name came up twice. He said it casually, but his ears went pink both times.

I didn’t tease him. Much.

When I finally stepped back into the carriage, the sun had shifted.

On the way back. A pair of gloves in a shop window caught my eye. I bought them, along with a pair of sturdy boots, and a couple of dresses that weren’t going to take up much space when folded into the luggage.

I needed to pack lightly. Bring only what was necessary. Will Hattie be with me? Can I bring her? I was stepping out of the shop, adjusting my packages, when I collided with someone.

"Oh! I’m so sorry," I stumbled, my head down as I reached for my slipping hat. "I wasn’t looking where—"

"Hey. Watch where you’re going."

I moved to step around him—

Then stopped.

The accent was wrong. No New York gentleman spoke like that. It was too loose. Too casual. As if spoken by someone who hadn’t been born in this century.

"Clara? Clara Vance?"

My blood turned to liquid nitrogen.