She Was Dared to Kiss a Masked Stranger at the Royal Ball… Then the Most Feared Duke Claimed Her

Chapter 8

The name inside the folder stole the air from her lungs.

Mr. Thomas Whitmore.

Once he had courted her. Once she had nearly accepted him. He had spoken sweetly of respectability, of future estates, of a quiet life removed from scandal. She had later discovered he was secretly promised to an heiress with twice her fortune, and he had called it a misunderstanding.

Now, according to Brandon’s intelligence, Thomas worked quietly within the crown’s internal offices — and he was feeding northern shipment routes to rival territories.

“He meets his contact tomorrow evening in the docklands,” Brandon said. “You will intercept him.”

Sienna closed the folder carefully. “And what precisely am I to offer? Your ruin?”

She met his gaze.

“He believes you cast aside. Disgraced. Vulnerable. Exactly the sort of woman who might seek revenge.”

“And you expect me to pretend I want it?”

“I expect you to survive long enough for my men to surround the warehouse.”

There it was again. Practical. Unsentimental.

“You trust me to walk into this alone?” she asked.

“I will be near.”

“Near is not the same as present.”

A flicker of something crossed his expression — irritation, perhaps, or guilt. “You insisted on standing beside me,” he said evenly. “This is what standing beside me requires.”

The words stung because they were true.

The docklands the following night were cold and fog-drenched — rotting wood, tar, salt, and secrecy. Thomas stood inside the warehouse exactly as she remembered him — well-dressed, charming smile already prepared.

“Sienna Crawford,” he drawled. “I heard of your misfortune.”

She let bitterness coat her voice. “The Duke destroys thoroughly.”

“Indeed.” He circled her slowly. “But perhaps I can offer you something better. Protection. Employment. A fresh beginning away from northern shadows.”

“And what would you require in return?”

“Information,” he said softly. “A woman scorned can be most persuasive.”

She allowed silence to stretch. Watched satisfaction bloom in his eyes.

“You must hate him,” Thomas continued. “After what he took from you.”

Sienna held his gaze. “I hate what he took from me.”

The words were not entirely false. She felt the truth of them settle somewhere in her chest, a splinter she could not remove.

Footsteps shifted faintly outside, almost imperceptible. Thomas did not notice at first.

“You could help us unseat him,” he whispered. “The North deserves new leadership.”

“And if I refuse?”

His hand shot out suddenly, gripping her arm hard enough to bruise. “You will not.” The charm vanished. The real man emerged. “Do you have any idea how valuable you are now? A disgraced woman with inside knowledge.”

Footsteps echoed. Thomas heard them. His grip tightened. “You brought someone.”

“I brought myself,” she said calmly.

Before he could react further, the warehouse doors burst open. Brandon stepped from the shadows like judgment itself. Thomas released her too late. Guards surrounded him within seconds, weapons drawn.

“Remove him,” Brandon ordered.

Thomas shouted protests as he was dragged away, his polished shoes scraping against the grime-covered floor. Sienna stood very still, her pulse thundering in her ears. She had faced him alone, had let him touch her, had played the role of the broken woman — and it had worked. Brandon approached slowly. He did not touch her at first.

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

But her arm throbbed where Thomas had held her. Brandon saw it. His jaw hardened.

“I should not have let you come alone,” he said quietly.

“You were not alone.”

“That is not what I meant.”

The admission hung between them. He had trusted her competence, but not her safety — and that distinction mattered.

“I did not falter,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “You did not.”

A pause. “I will interrogate him personally.”

She believed him. The thought unsettled her.

“You grow more like me each day,” he added, his voice low.

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is a warning.”

She searched his face. “For whom?”

His gaze darkened. “For anyone who mistakes you for fragile.”

In the dim warehouse light, something unspoken trembled between them. Not affection. Not yet. But recognition. She was no longer merely standing beside the Duke. She was becoming indispensable to him. And that frightened him more than any conspiracy ever could.