The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) by Courtney Milan

all this? You say it’s revenge, but I can’t make sense of you.”
    He looked down the street, away from her. “Just…wrestling with my conscience.”
    “What?” She gasped in fake shock. “Mr. Clark! I didn’t know you had one of those.”
    “I didn’t think I did, either,” he said wryly. “That’s why it’s proven so hard to defeat. I’m out of practice.” He sighed. “Very well, then. A while back, I told you that you would always know the score between us, even if you didn’t know the details.”
    She turned toward him. “And now you want to tell me details.”
    “God, no.” He looked disgusted. “Now I’m debating if I should tell you that the score has changed.”
    The air shifted subtly between them. She turned to him. “You’ve given up on revenge, then.”
    “No, Miss Marshall.” His voice was low and warm, so warm she could have sunk into it, let it enfold her. “I told you that I didn’t give a damn about you.”
    Her breath stopped in her lungs. He was watching her ever so intently, so intently that she shut her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. “Oh?”
    “That has changed. I find myself giving a damn. It’s an unfamiliar experience, to say the least.”
    Free let her breath cycle in and out, in and out. But it was the sound of his breathing that she listened for, as if his inhalations might provide some clue to untangle what he meant.
    She kept her eyes shut. “Well, Mr. Clark. You have not given me enough information to proceed. Precisely what sort of a damn are we talking about here? Is it a little damn? A big damn? Do you give more than one damn, or are we talking of damnation in the singular?”
    She could hear his shoes scuff against the ground, taking him closer. Closer to her. She couldn’t see him, and that made the moment all the more intimate. She could imagine the look in his eyes, faintly approving.
    “Free.” His voice dropped low, so low that she could almost feel the rumble of it in her chest. And then she felt it—not his hand, but a waft of air brushing her cheek, and then the absence of any draft. The warmth of him heating the space next to her.
    “This,” he said, “is about the shape of it.”
    She couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward, letting his hand brush against her jaw. His finger ran along her chin; his thumb brushed against her lips. Her eyes fluttered open.
    She’d imagined him intent on her, watching her ever so closely. But she hadn’t expected that look in his eyes, hadn’t expected him to exhale when she finally looked at him. She hadn’t expected him to move closer still, as if he’d spent long years alone and only she could fill that hollowness inside him.
    He leaned forward. His lips were close to hers, so close that she might have stretched up the barest inch and kissed him. But she wasn’t going to close that gap. She willed it into existence, demanded that it stay there. And he didn’t move any nearer.
    “How deceptive,” he remarked.
    It was such an odd thing to say; she blinked and looked up at him.
    “It’s some kind of illusion,” he said. “Or a painter’s trick. Until this moment, I had the distinct impression that you were a lady of ordinary dimensions.” His fingers stroked her cheek with a gentle brush. “But now you’re close and you’re not moving, and I can see the truth. You’re tiny.”
    “I am small,” she said, “but mighty.”
    His touch was warm on her jaw. “Have you ever watched ants? They scurry about carrying crumbs three times their size. You’ve no need to remind me of your strength. It’s great big fellows like me who crack under the strain.”
    He was great. And big. He was touching her as if she were some delicate thing.
    “Tell me, Miss Marshall,” he said. “As unconventional as you are… Hypothetically speaking, have you ever considered taking a lover?”
    As he spoke his fingers slid down her neck, resting briefly against her pulse. He must feel it hammering away, must