Edward was not there when Emma awoke.

She supposed that was for the best; to see him in daylight would be most disturbing. The eyes she thought of as black would, under the sun, be a deep golden brown – Henry's eyes. If she must see him, it should be by candlelight, so she did not see so clearly the man she loved within the man she hated. Edward belonged to the nighttime, when deepest fears roamed in shadow, and the mysterious dark beckoned with dangerous temptations.

During the Season of her debut and those that followed, she had danced many an evening in the arms of suitors whose thoughts were wicked, no matter the triviality of their conversation. Even Henry, with his gentle manner and courtesy, could not conceal the true intent of his embrace. His kind smile belied the desire in his gaze, and she had found there unspoken promises of both love and pleasure; only to him did her soul and body answer yes, though her lips had remained silent until the moment he'd knelt and asked her to be his wife.

She had seen Edward, too, though she could not have recognized him. In moments of frustration or anger, of confusion and doubt, there had been glimpses of the monster she would come to know. On the very night of their engagement party, Henry had berated her father for chiding his efforts toward progress, and though she had tried to keep him from embarrassing himself further, the force and swiftness of his rebuke had frightened her. His arm had slipped through her fingers, a hand raising so far that, had she thought him capable of violence, she may have feared a blow for her interference. It was in that instant she knew she would never rule him; until then, she had never wanted to.

There was a righteous fury to Henry, but it was born out of love, not hatred. He believed so strongly in the inherent goodness of mankind – that they were corruptible, but in their hearts, pure. How, then, had Edward Hyde come to be?

If Henry had sought to purge himself of all that was bad, was the Henry that remained wholly good? If that were so, how could he have carried on this experiment when each night, his hands returned drenched in blood? How could he have married her, knowing she may suffer the same fate as Edward's other victims – worse, for she would look him in the eye as it was done and know the man she loved had condemned her to death?

No, she decided, even her Henry was not all good. And if that was so, then neither was Edward wholly evil. Wicked, yes, but not made up entirely of all that tainted the soul. He had, in small moments, shown kindness. The pleasure he had given her was a testament to the love he professed, and this he had shared in abundance. Their joy was so pure she could not believe it was sinful in itself; it was the hate between them that gave their embraces such shame. If she loved him as well—

No. She never could. Even if he was not evil, Edward's deeds were beyond forgiveness – but then, so were Henry's. No matter whose hand held the knife, both were to blame for the harm it caused. Weren't they?

A single body and two minds. Did they have two souls as well? If the truth were revealed, the law would show no mercy, but might Henry redeem his soul with his confession? To do so would be to die, and Emma wept at the thought of losing her only love. All her life, she had been taught it was better to martyr oneself than to live in sin, but she no longer believed it was so. There was always something left to live for; if she could be that for Henry, she would be content.

But until her true husband returned, it was Edward she must contend with. Even as her heart warmed with Henry's love, memories of ecstasy tormented her senses with heat of another kind.

Last night, she had hastened to Henry's room at his sounds of distress, and found Edward there, his body bared to her and his eyes beckoning. At a word, she had rushed into his arms to claim the pleasure he offered, and taken it with a greedy hunger – one which, at long last, he had satisfied completely.

Afterward, she'd wept as he held her in his arms. She'd tried to avoid his questioning gaze, hoping he would think her tears were shed only in the name of her humiliation at having been so wanton, but guilt made her fears plain.

"What have you done?" he'd asked, his grip upon her chin almost bruising.

The prepared excuse scalded her tongue, burnt to ashes before it could be put to use, and she abandoned Henry's ill-conceived counsel. If she should lie, she would be beaten, and she could not withstand the pain. Edward would have the answer either way – and the truth, at least, might grant her mercy. Her lips trembled as she spoke what she feared to be her last words.

"I made love with Henry."

She'd closed her eyes, shaking with terror as he let go, and shuddered at the stroke of his hand descending between her legs. He parted her folds, taking the tender nub between his fingertips. Emma held her breath and looked to him, but could read nothing in his gaze. Was this a caress, or the beginning of some intimate, unfathomable torture?

"Did you seduce him?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, praying her honesty would spare her the worst of his wrath.

Edward nodded, as if he had expected her reply. "What did he say?"

"That you had forbidden it." She glanced away. "And that you would hurt me."

His free hand wrapped around her neck, and his lips pressed to her ear. "He was right."

She stroked his arm. "Please—"

"There's no point in begging for mercy tonight. You should have heeded his warning."

Emma trembled with fear, her sex arching unwittingly into his hand, and the sweet friction against her aching bud made her whimper with pleasure even as she anticipated pain. Was there no way to earn his pity? She had to try.

"I only wanted to know if…" She stopped, suddenly struck with fear that her explanation might worsen her punishment, but it was too late to recant. "If I would feel loved."

"Did you?" he asked, tracing the quivering folds still dripping with his seed, and her sensitive peak throbbed with the need for his touch again.

"Yes," she said, recalling with warmth the care in Henry's embrace – and the desperate ache it had left in its wake. "But—"

"But you thought of me, didn't you?" Before she could answer his question, he teased her nub into tremors of bliss, a silent scream stealing her reply, and thrust two fingers deep inside her, curving right into the sweet spot where she ached. "You closed your eyes and wished it was me inside you, pounding your cunt until you scream."

She tossed her head back as his fingertips pulsed, tearing a cry of joy from her lips. "Yes!"

"Did he make you scream?" he asked, and stopped, leaving her breathless and shaking with lust.

"No," she whispered, a tear falling down her cheek.

"No. Only I make you scream." He thrust a third finger deep and began again, harder, seizing her pleasure once more in his merciless grip. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes!"

His free hand grasped her breast, pinching the sensitive nipple until its pleasure joined the ache within her in one terrible, desperate need. "You want me to make you scream right now, don't you?"

Emma arched, yearning for the climax just beyond her reach. "Yes!"

His thumb beat against her nub as her climax neared. "Beg."

"Please, I beg you," she whimpered, clutching his hand upon her breast. "Please make me scream."

He turned her head toward him, growling against her lips. "I own this cunt."

With one last stroke, she screamed in ecstasy, writhing against him and tossing her head back to curve into his shoulder. Hot lust spilled from her quivering sex, drenching his hand as he prolonged her pleasure, his fingers thrusting until her shudders of bliss had finally ceased. In the last moments, she sought his lips, and in her kiss was more than she could ever say: gratitude for an end to her sweet suffering; an apology for her betrayal; and a plea to spare her the punishment she so feared.

But his kiss was cruel and hard, with a fury he had not shown since the first night she had defied him. As he pulled back, he slapped her across the face, smearing her cheek with their lust. She winced, but had no time to beg forgiveness; he thrust his fingers into her mouth, making her gag upon them.

"You are mine. First, always, and only," he said, forcing her to lick him clean before he released her, only to take her chin in a bruising grip. "You are never to touch him again."

Emma sobbed. She had dreaded pain, but this was what she feared most. Must she lose what little comfort she had in her beloved? Would she never again see the wonders of his pleasure, or at last know her own as she looked into his eyes? Never again kiss him as she proclaimed her love? Was there nothing left for the villain to take?

But even this could not defray the price of her betrayal, and as Edward's gaze burned into her own, she knew at once the agonies yet to come.

"If you so much as lay a hand on him, I will break every bone in your body, one at a time. As each of them heals, I'll shatter another, and another, until you are an invalid, good for nothing else than to be fucked like a useless whore," he said, taking her left hand in both of his. "I'll start with this."

He gripped her finger, the words engraved into her wedding band biting into her skin, and began to twist.

"No, please!" she cried. "I'll never touch him again, I swear it!"

She winced as he let go, and recoiled against the headboard.

"That was your only warning," he said.

His arms wrapped about her, pulling her back into his embrace. They said nothing for awhile, and Emma relaxed into that place between sleep and wakefulness, only conscious of his hand idly tracing her stomach.

"What did Henry say when he couldn't satisfy you?"

"He doesn't know," she whispered.

Edward laughed.

"Tell him." He tapped her cheek to make her look at him. "That's an order."

She nodded and sighed, resigned, but her relief was short-lived. With a rough yank, he'd pulled her onto her knees before him and, taking his manhood in his hand, had made her choke upon him until the sun began to rise.

Her throat still ached now, hours later, and though she'd revile the sight of Edward in daylight tomorrow, she'd prefer a full day's reprieve to seeing him again that night. But which of them would return this evening? Until he stood before her, she could not know – and in the meantime, all she could do was wait.

But when six o'clock arrived and a half-hour passed without any sound in the room save the ticking of the clock, Emma stood and went to the door, peeking out into the hallway. Had something happened to Henry? Or to Edward? She would not ring for her maid to ask where her husband might be; with any luck, she would find him herself before long, and descended the stairs.

The laboratory door, as always, was locked; she knocked upon it, but received no reply. Listening intently, she waited in the office for a further fifteen minutes, crafting careful supplications to use should Edward emerge and find her forwardness to be cause for punishment. Still, there was no sound from within, and when the clock struck seven, she sought him elsewhere.

The dining room was bare but for a single place setting to the left of the table's head – her place. Her husband's had not been made ready.

"Poole, where is Henry?" she asked the elderly butler as she entered.

"Dr. Jekyll is gone."

A cold shiver wracked her body.

"What did you say?" she whispered.

"Pardon, ma'am," he said with a slight bow. "He is from home this evening, Mrs. Jekyll."

She let out a breath of relief, chiding herself for being so anxious. There was nothing ominous about the butler's answer; she had merely caught him by surprise.

"Oh. Yes. I'd forgotten," she lied. "When did he leave?"

"Not half an hour ago, ma'am."

But if their allotted hours had changed, and Henry was due this evening, where might he have gone? Did he not wish to see how she fared in the wake of Edward's fury? What else could have taken him from her side? Until she knew, her mind would find no rest.

"Did he say when he'll return?"

"No, ma'am."

She dined alone, and when the final course had been finished, she could not bring herself to make the journey back upstairs, for nothing awaited her there but a discontented sleep. Instead, she took a glass of sweet wine in the drawing room and set out her embroidery. Perhaps she would sew something for Henry – a handkerchief for a token he may keep with him through the day, to remind him of her love in their absence.

But nothing she made for him would be his alone, and the thought of Edward making use of her affection for some trifling or sordid purpose was worse than giving nothing at all. And any favour she might grant her beloved may be scorned by the one she hated, subject to mockery at best – and some violent humiliation at worst.

Begrudgingly, she rang for her maid and bid the girl bring a selection of novels from her library, which she skimmed with little interest and set aside. Another glass of wine, and she settled back to rest. There was nothing else to do but wait.

When the bell rang at the front door some hours later, Emma woke with a start, and listened intently as Poole saw to the visitor. She rose and stood by the drawing room doorway to hear who had come to call, but he spoke too quietly to be known from voice alone.

"I shall inform her at once," said Poole. "If you will follow me, Sir Carew—"

"Father!"

Emma broke into a smile, turning the corner to greet her most welcome visitor. It was perhaps indecent to receive company so late while her husband was from home, but this was her father; no one could fault her. Without a moment's hesitation, she embraced him as he stepped through the threshold.

"How I have missed you," she said, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

There was so much to say, yet she dared not speak without great caution. He could not know anything of what had happened these past few weeks, or indeed for months prior; should any suspicion fall upon Henry, or his wicked pseudonym ever be connected to the St. Jude's murders and traced to this household, she would be made a widow before the month was out.

Though she loved her father dearly, he could not be trusted with this secret. Son-in-law or not, the elderly Knight would contend that her husband's life was forfeit to justice; she would lose the only man she would ever love.

"And I, you," her father said, pulling back.

He seemed older even than his advancing age, new lines etched into his face and a haunted look clouding his eyes, as if some great weight had settled upon him. It was not until he looked to Poole, who stood uncertain by the open door, that she realized just how tense her father had become.

"Shut the door, man!" he snapped.

The butler hastened to do so. Even once it had been closed and locked, her father peered at it as though he could see into the darkness beyond, searching for something – or someone.

"Father, what is it?"

"What I have to say is for your ears alone," he answered.

Emma nodded. "You may retire, Poole. I will see to my father."

The butler bowed and retreated as she led Danvers into the drawing room; once there, he paced by the window to check for any movement outside. Emma settled in a chair by the fire and waited for him to tell her the purpose of his unusual visit. At last, he spoke.

"We are all in very grave danger."

Her father had said as much several times over the past few months, but not since the last Board Member had died; only now did she truly believe him. It had been at her insistence that they'd remained in London despite all that had happened. Had it not been for the imminent wedding, they may have escaped to their country estate, far from the threat of death which loomed over the hospital and the city it served.

It was no coincidence that the recent murder victims had all been connected to St. Jude's; one would have to be daft not to see the correlation between their positions on the Board and their untimely deaths. The papers shouted gossip and theories from each headline, some assuming the killer to be a former patient or a family member of one who had died in their care, seeking retribution for the hospital's many faults. Others believed it was the Board's social circle, not their service, which made them vulnerable targets to an equal or greater adversary – a threat from within.

If only they knew.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Simon Stride called upon me tonight. We had all thought he'd left for Edinburgh the day after your wedding, but he has concealed himself here, among his more… scandalous holdings."

Emma nodded. The rumours of Simon's business dealings, not the least significant of which were a collection of brothels and other sinful establishments throughout London's East End, had been reason enough for her to disregard his affections almost from the outset. Though she had suspected this to be true, she had never had any proof – until now. If her father confirmed it, it must be so.

"It seems he has decided to resign his position at St. Jude's, and advised me to do the same. He thinks it best we all retreated from public life until the killer has been found – you and Henry included. I agreed that we should meet with the both of you to discuss this, but just as we had ordered the carriage to be brought, a stable boy was found killed."

Emma's mouth went dry. "How?"

"The poor child had been beaten to death, and the door to the stables left open. Had we not sent Jarvis to see to the carriage when we did, whoever's done this may have been lying in wait for us. I have no doubt the St. Jude's Killer has struck again – and I believe we are marked to die next."

It was plain, then. Edward must have reclaimed his nighttime domain; his absence this evening could only mean that this was his doing… and his next intended victim none other than her own father.

Unless…

Yes, of course. It was Simon, not Danvers, who had surely been his target; he and Henry had never been on good terms, and now that Edward had the man he so hated within his grasp…

"Did you see him? The killer?" she asked, but it was little more than false concern. If Edward had been identified, it would have been the police, not her father, who told her of her husband's monstrous deed.

"No. Jarvis found the boy's body in the open, and saw only a shadow fleeing as he roused the household from the safety of the servant's entrance. The killer had not had time to conceal what he had done."

Emma said nothing more, standing to embrace her father with tears in her eyes. Even if Edward had not wished him harm, that the monster had brought death to her father's doorstep had put him in grave danger indeed. And if her father had gotten in his way…

"Where is Henry?" Danvers inquired.

Scarcely had he asked the question than they heard the metallic scrape of a key turning within the front door, and Danvers parted from her, turning to face the drawing room entrance. His wizened hand gripped his walking stick until his knuckles shone white, readying for an attack as a shadow crossed the foyer.

"Henry?" Emma called.

Slowly, the man turned, revealed in the fireplace's light – Henry, it would seem, though his hair was unbound and his worn black Inverness coat one she had not seen before. Danvers sighed slightly, no doubt with relief, but Emma could only stare. It was her husband's face, but who lay beneath?

"Sir Danvers," the younger man said as he entered, removing his coat and top hat, but kept the silver-tipped walking stick he carried. "I had just gone to call on you when I saw the police outside your home. What happened?"

"A murder, dear Henry. If we had been but one minute later, there may have been more."

"We?" He looked to her. "Was Emma—"

"No, thank heaven – it was myself and Simon Stride."

Her husband didn't bother to conceal his distaste for the man. A small grimace played upon his face at the mention of that name, but it was not Edward's hateful sneer. Yet, he would not meet her eye for more than a moment at a time – was it Henry most concerned with attending to the matter at hand, or Edward avoiding her suspicious gaze?

"I thought he had left London," he said.

"So did we all. We were mistaken, and it is a good thing we were." Danvers stepped aside, no longer shielding Emma from impending attack, and stood by a settee as if to sit at an expected invitation. "Simon and I are in agreement that we should all leave London, yourself and Emma included. We were about to call upon you when this tragedy occurred."

Emma followed, settling in a chair so that they might be seated as well. Her father joined her. The other man did not.

"Simon wishes to travel alongside us?" The irritation in his voice was palpable, but well-controlled; she could not imagine Edward would bother to censor himself.

"We had not discussed any arrangements. We had hoped to speak with you first."

The man turned to stand by Emma's chair, out of her line of sight. "And where is Mr. Stride?"

An almost innocent question. Did Henry seek an audience – or did Edward seek his victim?

"I don't know. When the police arrived, an officer escorted him away for his own safety before I could inquire where he might go."

"Father, perhaps you should stay here tonight," Emma suggested.

Though it would mean proximity to a killer, it may be better to keep him close. Surely Edward would not dare attack anyone under his own roof; the risk of discovery was too great.

"No," her father said, standing once more. "Home would be the safest place. I cannot imagine the killer would return to the scene of the crime."

Unless he had an open invitation.

Had her husband – whichever of them stood before her – not been present, she might have insisted on her father's company, if only to ease her loneliness. But dangerous secrets still lurked here, and one wrong question could mean disaster. It was best if her father returned home.

Emma shivered as her husband moved to stand behind her chair. She looked to her father, but his attention had turned to the window once more. One strong hand gripped her shoulder as the other snaked up the back of her neck, entwining about a lock of hair at the nape, and at a slow, painful pull, she met her husband's gaze.

Edward. He had played the part of her beloved so well that had he not chosen to reveal himself, she could not have known it was him. Though her heart raced in fright, she lay her hand upon his own, a silent plea that no violence should befall them this night.

He lifted a finger to his lips in warning, and when she nodded her understanding, he released her from his subtle, sinister grasp and looked to her father.

"Shall I send for a carriage?" he asked.

"If you would. I dared not use my own."

"I dismissed Poole for the night," Emma said.

Edward stepped away. "Then I shall go myself."

"Much appreciated, my boy," her father said, and the two of them made to leave.

But would Edward return with safe passage, or a knife in her father's back? If Emma did not speak now, she may never see either of them again.

She stood. "I'll wait with you, Father."

Though Edward's back was turned, she saw him tense, muscles coiling like a predator readying to maul its prey. Her knees shook with fright, and it was just as well that she could not see his eyes, for if his gaze should show her the terrible fate her defiance had surely wrought, she may have fallen to her knees and begged to recant her disobedience.

Her father, of course, noted none of this. As Edward left to hire a carriage, they said little, their silence heavy with grief, and could not withstand further discussion or idle pleasantries. Even their farewells as her father departed, though truer now than ever, rang hollow.

The newlywed couple watched from the drawing room window as the carriage pulled away. Edward's expression was stern, but betrayed nothing; only the harsh grip of his arm linked with hers belied the violence simmering beneath the surface.

Emma held his arm fast. For this night, at least, her father would be safe. Once foiled, she doubted Edward would attack again so soon, and now that he was home, she could assure herself of his whereabouts. If that meant she must suffer his fury in her father's stead, so be it.

But she would not resign herself to martyrdom just yet.

"Edward," she whispered as the carriage drove out of sight, "please—"

"Not a word until we are upstairs."

He turned and left the drawing room, fairly dragging her with him, but her trembling legs matched his pace. Each step further into the darkened house was one closer to ruin; she felt, as they ascended the stairs, that she walked to the executioner's block. Holding back her tears, she prayed it was not so.

But as they approached the bedroom door, her every sense screamed in warning. She stumbled, kept upright only by Edward's iron grip yanking her forward, and her legs lost their strength as he turned the knob.

No sooner had the door shut behind them than Emma was upon her knees, her face buried in her hands, and tears fell down her shaking fingers. Heaving sobs overtook her; even if she had found the words to beg for safety, her tongue would not obey. Instead, she waited – for a strike, the slash of a knife, or one last taunt before a fatal blow.

It never came. Yet, she felt him near, standing at her back for a moment, then moved aside, pausing at her shoulder. Did he circle her as a hunter does his quarry, deciding how best to dispatch the helpless creature before him? Or was he content to witness her terror, delaying his wrath until her fear ceased to amuse him? She kept her head down, her grief concealed; she must not let him see how she had broken, for the moment she did, all hope was lost.

The gaze she felt upon her was surely one of contempt, and behind dark eyes, he must plot her doom. Though he had not described his heinous deeds at length, she could imagine only too well his murderous acts, for the methods of the St. Jude's Killer were infamous, and his victims' ends brutal. The violence he had shown her thus far would be nothing compared to the agonies she was certain to suffer.

At last, he stood before her, and she wept anew, praying he would speak and allow her time to craft a plea for her life. But he only drew closer still, the heat of his body warming her cold, tear-streaked fingers, the last pleasure she would ever know as he stepped back to deliver a deadly blow—

—and passed her by.

Had she been spared? No, she could not believe that; perhaps he went to retrieve some weapon more agreeable to his purpose. If so, he moved at his leisure, and did not hasten to return.

She waited, motionless save for her heaving breaths, and minutes passed that seemed to last days, but she remained untouched. Slowly, her weeping abated, and sensation returned to her limbs, the sharp pinpricks a painful, wondrous reminder that she still lived. When her heartbeat no longer thundered in her ears, she peeked through wary hands to find that Edward sat in a chair before the fire, his back turned to her.

If she dared, she could withdraw from the room and make her escape before he had taken notice. But should the floorboards falter in a treacherous note, or the silken brush of her skirts sound too swiftly, she would be undone in an instant. As long as Edward remained near, she was yet his prisoner.

Why had he not spoken? What could he be planning? If he did not intend to kill her, there was no sense in remaining on her knees. But she could not yet find the strength to rise, and while all she knew was in peril, there was one other truth she could scarcely fathom.

"A child," she whispered. "You killed a child."

Edward didn't deign to look at her. "He should not have gotten in my way."

"How many more must die before you have had your fill of bloodshed?"

Emma clutched her skirts to keep from cowering as Edward stood and drew near, wrapping a hand about her neck.

"Only those who oppose me." His grip tightened until she felt her pulse beat against his skin. "And those who know too much."

Including you. The words were unspoken, but his meaning was clear. If there were ever a time to beg for her life, it was now. Yet she sensed, even as he held her completely at his mercy, that his threat was merely a taunt. If he wished to kill her, he'd have done so already; it was her pleas he waited for, and she would not oblige him while bravery might better ensure an answer.

"Who is there left to oppose you?" she asked. "The Board of Governors are dead or resigned; they cannot do you any harm."

Her courage was rewarded; he released her from his deadly grasp. But he pulled back only to retrieve a knife from a sheathe hidden in his waistcoat, and Emma gasped, frozen in terror as he held the blade aloft. He watched it catch the firelight, running a thumb along its edge as if to slice his victim's flesh.

"I will slaughter every last one of them," he said.

Emma sighed, assured now that the weapon was not meant for her. In her relief, it was long moments before a second fear seized her in its icy grip.

"Edward," she whispered, "my father is on that board."

He brought the knife down slowly, and she followed its arc as it came to rest by his side, just near enough to her face that she dared not move; when she looked back to him, he was smiling.

"So he is."

Emma took a panicked breath, shaking her head. "You couldn't—"

"If the boy hadn't been discovered, it would already be done."

And may have been just now, had I not interfered, Emma thought. It was a wonder Edward had not bound her fate with her father's, but that offered little solace; while she still lived, she could not abandon him to Edward's cruelty.

"No," she said, sobbing as she spoke. "Not my father. Please."

But Edward didn't acknowledge her plea, even to reprimand her for contradicting him. "We have always detested him."

"We?"

"Henry and myself. He may be the weaker man, but there is much we have in common."

Her father had been Henry's mentor – more than that, he had been his friend, long before the two were bound in her union. What could have given her beloved cause to hate him? And how could she not have seen it?

"I never knew…"

"Perhaps you don't know your dear Henry as well as you thought," Edward said, sheathing the knife once more. "And to think, if Sir Danvers had not delayed the wedding for so long, it may have been your precious husband in your marriage bed."

He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter, and she shut her ears against it as she lay a trembling hand upon his leg.

"Please don't harm my father," she begged. "Please, Edward, I beg you. I will do anything."

Her fingers slid upward, and she feigned a gaze of lust as they neared the bulge of his manhood, heavy beneath his dark trousers. With a sneer, he yanked her to him by the hair and thrust against her mouth.

"There is nothing you can offer me that I cannot simply take."

Desperate to inspire some need of her within him, she stroked her lips up and down his shaft, and he moaned as he hardened, massive and straining against his confinement. He was right: he would take her now, however he wished, and her sex ached, eager to accept him. But she could not lose control until she had gained what she sought.

He released her to unfasten his trousers, and she lay a hand upon his own as if to assist, looking him in the eye.

"There is something, Edward: my love," she said. "If you kill my father, I will never forgive you. But if you spare him… I cannot promise that I will love you, but I swear to you, I will try—"

She screamed in pain as the back of his hand smashed into her face, thrown to the ground by his devastating blow. Never before had he hit her with such brute force; she feared she'd exhausted what little mercy he had, and wept as she cupped her reddened cheek, disoriented and blinded by her tears.

"Never lie to me," Edward growled.

When she said nothing, he grabbed her wrist and yanked, dragging her toward the bed. She writhed and struggled, but it was no use; she feared to strike him even now, lest she risk her life for a mere moment of freedom. He tossed her onto the mattress and pinned her down, his knee parting her thighs.

"I won't let you do this!" she said, her eyes blazing with anger. "I will warn him—"

He gripped her throat and slammed her into the headboard. "The last woman to betray me lies butchered in a common grave."

She lay her hands upon his own, but dared not pry at them; his was no idle threat. Her only safety lay in one terrible truth. "If I die, Henry will destroy you both."

"Are you certain of that?" Edward asked, his voice laced with menace.

It was the only thing she could be certain of anymore.

"Yes."

Edward's grip slowly eased, and Emma closed her eyes to keep him from seeing her relief.

"You're right. He lives only for you, but his control weakens with every passing day. The time will come when I am rid of him forever – and if you should lose my love, I will slit your throat the moment I am free."

Emma clenched her fists, wracked with shivers at the stroke of his finger along her neck.

"Until then, you may yet be of some use to me," he said, and she expected his touch to descend where he thought that use might be, but his hand rose to grip her chin. "If you wish to spare your father, you must offer a life in return."

She froze, opening her eyes to search his. Did he mean her own life? She had given him all of herself, save only her heart – must she die in her father's place as well? No, she could not believe he would destroy her just to slake his bloodlust; he was too fond of tormenting her. There must be some other victim he sought, though why he thought she could assist him was a mystery.

"Whose?"

"Simon Stride's."

Of course. Her former suitor, too, would have been dead this night if Edward had had his way – and now that Simon knew for certain he was next, Edward's prey would be even more elusive than before.

"I don't know where he is. How will I contact him?"

"That's for you to decide."

It would be difficult, but with the right connections, not impossible. Wed though she now was to a lowly doctor, as Sir Danvers' daughter and niece to an Earl, she had access to places even her husband would find barred against him. Long before their brief, failed courtship, she and Simon's ties to the aristocracy had been an unfortunate commonality, and the power of a few well-placed calling cards was immeasurable in her skilled hands. But as for the reason to be given for these summons, she was at a loss.

"What do I tell him?"

"That your husband beats you, and you fear what may happen if you should anger him again," Edward said with a grin; that much would be the truth. "Say you want to leave, but you must be certain of another marriage first. Accept the proposal you refused before and offer him proof of your love."

In other words, seduce a man she hated almost as much as the killer before her – perhaps more, for the thought of even enduring his leering gaze again made her stomach turn, to say nothing of inviting him to lie with her. Even if she should find the opportunity to try, who was to say she'd be successful?

"What if he declines?"

"He lusts for you just as I do. Even if he has no intention of marrying you now, he'll hasten to your bed."

"And if he should suspect…?" she asked.

"He'd never suppose the pitiful doctor could get away with murder. He gives Jekyll even less credit than I do."

Until a month ago, she wouldn't have thought it possible, either – but her husband had gotten away with murder, hadn't he? Had Henry killed these people, knowing the carnage Edward would wrought yet doing nothing to stop it? Or was he as much a victim as they, held captive by his own mind under threat of horrors worse than even the slaughter already undertaken? Yes. Just as she feared the monster before her, so did its creator; what happened while bound to the devil was no fault of his own, nor hers.

It was Edward alone who bore the guilt of this deed, and she would pray for their souls until the day she joined the dead.

"All right," she whispered.

With a nod, Edward released her. "Allow him to set the date, but I will decide the place."

And Simon would not leave it alive. It would have to be somewhere isolated, where the murder could not be interrupted or the body found before they were long gone. Their home was out of the question – one of Simon's own holdings must suffice.

With her father resigned, the Board itself would be obliterated. New members would take the place of the fallen, of course, once the scandal had subsided, though she couldn't guess who they would be. The aristocracy and the politically-savvy would shy away from what was once a prestigious post; perhaps more learned people, even actual medical professionals, would serve in their stead. If that was all the good that would come of this bloodshed, so be it.

"And Simon will be the last?" she inquired, though she meant it to be more of a statement; with his objective achieved, surely the murders would cease.

Edward shook his head. "There is one more who must die. His knowledge is too great a risk."

"What does he know?"

"As much as you. Perhaps more."

What more was there to know? She knew the method and means of his killing now; the motive for, and even the inalienable proof of, these murders were in her hands. There could be no other with greater knowledge of these secrets than she, save her own husband, and Edward would not commit suicide out of spite.

"Who?"

Again, Edward shook his head. "You will know when it is done."

His tone was final, and Emma dared not press further. Perhaps Henry would know; whether he would tell her and risk Edward's wrath was another question. Emma lay back against the headboard, exhausted from these deadly trials, and waited for Edward's inevitable seduction.

It was not until a cold blade scraped her neck that she saw the knife in his hand.

"There are fates worse than death," he said, pressing the sharp edge to the artery at the base of her throat. "If you betray me, I will give you such agonies that you will beg me to kill you long before I am through."

In her terror, Emma could not breathe, nor shiver for fear of slicing herself open. Even her tears stilled before they could be shed, blinding her. Only her lips moved, trembling and murmuring something that may have been a plea for mercy; whatever it was, it must have pleased him, for when her vision cleared, the knife had been sheathed again.

Edward pulled back, and Emma cowered, shaking now with fear as the horror of his threat set in. What tortures had he imagined for her? Had he thought of them even while he'd been inside her, or dreamt of them as she'd lain contented in his arms? How could she have ever given herself to such a beast?

The predator closed in even now, dragging her down to the mattress, and pinned her wrists over her head as she turned her face away from him.

"Now, submit to your husband," he growled into her ear, his manhood pressed hard between her thighs.

Perhaps it was the madness of grief, but she laughed, a bitter, hateful sound, and met his gaze with a defiant glare. "You are not my husband."

This time, she saw the blow coming, squeezing her eyes shut as the back of his hand smashed into her injured cheek. Streaks of white, red, and black danced across her vision, and waves of nausea rose with tides of dizzying pain. It was a wonder he hadn't broken her jaw, though he may yet; she braced herself for another strike, but none came.

"I would prefer not to force you."

His voice was eerily civil, an echo of Henry's own, but beneath it simmered a dangerous rage. Even so, a giddy sensation rushed through her veins; he could not kill her, and that was more power than she'd had since this nightmare had begun.

"And I would prefer that you returned to the Hell from which Henry summoned you," she replied, looking him in the eye once more, and tasted blood where a tooth had cut the inside of her cheek.

As his hand rose again, she flinched, regretting her insult. But a gentle finger stroked along her jaw until she glanced up, and a glimmer of a smile shone in his eye.

"You're right. I am not your husband." His hand closed around her throat. "But I am your Lord and Master just the same. And you, my willing slave."

"I am your prisoner, nothing more."

"You are my whore," he said, his free hand cupping her breast, and his lips drew near. "Choose, Emma: pleasure, or pain? I will have you either way."

She shuddered, the delirium of her fury fading into sorrow. It was no longer death she feared, but agony; if he should force himself upon her now, she may never know ecstasy again, and to be denied the joys she had come to love was more than she could bear. Even now, her sex ached for him, dripping with lust at the teasing stroke of his rigid manhood, thrusting against her with every breath.

So be it, then. She would take the pleasure he offered without remorse, for it was all the solace she had, and would blame no one but the devil who had cursed her with this sin.

With a gentle arch, she slid her hand up to the nape of his neck and pulled him down for a bloody kiss.