Thank you so much to everyone who continues to read and support this story! Your engagement through comments, kudos, bookmarks, and more means the world to me. Your insights and enthusiasm truly inspire me to keep writing.

You may notice that this chapter is slightly shorter than the previous ones, but it contains a pivotal turn in Emma and Killian's relationship. I hope you enjoy this crucial moment as much as I enjoyed writing it. Your feedback and encouragement are invaluable, and I can't wait to hear what you think!

Happy reading!


Chapter 8: Last Tango in Paris

Killian knew the layout well. The mansion had been the domain of the late Marquess of Avory, renowned for its debauched revelries until his sudden demise about two years ago. Now, with entirely different furnishings, it was shaping up to be one of Paris's most infamous addresses once again. Yet, despite the changes, Killian easily recognized the small parlor on the ground floor, its French doors leading out to the garden.

That was where he took Emma.

To negotiate.

Because, as expected (and perhaps secretly hoped), things were not unfolding according to his diabolical plans.

He had anticipated unleashing chaos and pandemonium. Yet, within five minutes of arriving, he discovered that the combined pride of the Joneses and Georgises wouldn't let him.

No matter how much he was baited, he refused to descend into savagery.

Especially not in her presence.

He recalled vividly the disdainful glance she had cast at her brother just a fortnight ago, and the contemptuously amused gaze she had leveled at him, which had reduced him to a babbling fool.

He had attempted to banish the memory, yet every nuance and emotion of that encounter was seared into his mind: embarrassment, fury, frustration, desire...

And one fleeting moment of bliss.

Tonight had been a rollercoaster of unpleasant sentiments... all of which evaporated the instant he had danced with her.

She had been lithe and nimble in his embrace, a feather on the breeze. So effortlessly held. Her skirts had billowed around them, conjuring thoughts of slender limbs intertwined in silk sheets. Her scent, a beguiling mix of chamomile and Woman, had intoxicated him, leading his mind to envision ivory skin illuminated by candlelight and cascading golden hair on a pillow. In those moments, he had imagined himself enveloped in her purity, exploring, savoring, enraptured by her essence.

Ridiculous fantasies, he had scolded himself. Women like her did not grace his bed willingly, and they never would.

Yet, she had danced with him, seemingly willing enough. Though he doubted she found any enjoyment, she had convincingly feigned delight, making him believe she was content. And when he had looked into her uplifted face, he had dared to believe, if only for a fleeting moment, that her emerald eyes sparkled with anticipation rather than disdain. She had allowed him to draw her near, suggesting perhaps she desired his closeness.

It was all smoke and mirrors, naturally, but even the most brazen deceptions could be molded into half-truths. Killian was well-versed in such arts. Like every soul since the dawn of time, she had her price.

So, all he needed to do was unearth that price and determine if he was willing to meet it.

He guided her to a secluded nook in the garden, far from the glaring lights of the manor. Most of the late Lord Avory's collection of ancient Roman relics still adorned the grounds, artfully scattered among the foliage—likely because relocating those mammoth pieces would bankrupt a tycoon.

With a deft movement, Killian hoisted his companion and settled her atop a stone sarcophagus. Perched upon its ornate pedestal, it brought them eye to eye.

"If I'm not back promptly," she said tersely, "my reputation will be shredded. Not that you'd give a fig, I'm sure. But mark my words, Hook, I won't take it lying down, and you—"

"My reputation's already shredded," he replied coolly. "And you couldn't care less."

"That's absolutely untrue!" she exclaimed. "I've tried to explain; I do empathize, and I was willing to help sort this mess out. Within reason, of course. But you refuse to listen. Because, like every other man, you can only hold one notion in your head at a time—and it's usually the wrong one."

"While women are juggling twenty-seven contradictory notions at once," he retorted, "which is why they can't stick to anything resembling a principle."

He took her hand and began delicately peeling off her glove.

"You'd better stop that," she warned. "You're only going to make matters worse."

He removed the glove, revealing her delicate, porcelain hand, and all thoughts of negotiation evaporated. "I fail to see how matters could worsen," he muttered. "I'm already enchanted by a sharp-tongued, self-assured, vexing ringmaster of a lady."

Her head snapped up, eyes widening in disbelief. "Enchanted? You're far from it. Vindictive, perhaps. Malicious."

He swiftly moved on to the other glove with practiced efficiency. "I must be enchanted," he remarked evenly. "I foolishly believe you're the most beautiful woman I've ever encountered. Apart from your hairstyle," he added, casting a disdainful glance at the elaborate coils, plumes, and pearls. "It's positively dreadful."

She scowled. "Your romantic declarations leave me positively breathless."

He lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to her wrist.

"Eímai sklávos sou," he murmured.

Her pulse fluttered beneath his lips. "It means, 'I am your slave,'" he translated, as she snatched her hand away. "Fíltatos. Dearest."

She swallowed. "I think you had better stick to English."

"But Greek is so evocative," he persisted. "Se íthela apó tin próti stigmí pou se eída."

I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you.

"Me vasánizes apó tóte."

You've tormented me ever since.

He continued pouring out his heart in a language foreign to her, watching her eyes soften and her breath quicken, as he deftly removed his gloves.

"Oh, please don't," she whispered.

He drew ever nearer, still speaking the language that seemed to mesmerize her.

"You shouldn't wield such masculine charms," she managed, her voice strained. She reached out, touching his sleeve. "What unforgivable thing have I done?"

In his mother tongue, he confessed, "You've made me ache for you, made me yearn against my will."

She must have sensed the passion and turmoil underlying his words, yet she didn't pull away. Instead, as he pulled her closer, she held her breath, releasing it in a sigh that he tasted when their lips met.


Emma had discerned the storm brewing in his voice, and needed no crystal ball to foresee trouble ahead. She'd mentally urged with herself a hundred times to flee. Surely, Hook wouldn't beg her to stay. His pride was too lofty to wrestle her into his arms or chase after her if she bolted.

Yet, she couldn't muster the resolve.

She was clueless about what he craved, and even if she did know, she doubted her ability to meet that need. Still, she sensed—clear as the imminent doom—that he yearned for something desperately. Despite all logic and rationality, she couldn't bring herself to abandon him.

Instead, she surrendered, as she had longed to do since the first glimpse of him, as she'd yearned even more painfully when he deftly undid her confounding glove, and as she'd craved beyond measure when his lips met hers in the storm.

He was towering and dark and handsome, exuding scents of smoke, wine, cologne, and unmistakable masculinity. Now, she realized she'd never desired anything so intensely in her entire life as she craved his deep voice sending shivers down her spine, the powerful embrace of his arms around her, and his unyielding, sinful lips pressing against hers.

She couldn't resist responding to the fierce affection in his kiss, just as she couldn't prevent her hands from exploring wool and linen, warmed by his body's heat, until they found the spot where his heart throbbed, fast and strong, mirroring her own.

He trembled at her touch, sliding between her thighs, drawing her nearer as he trailed searing kisses across her lips and down to her neck. She felt the heat of his masculinity throbbing against her, igniting a pulsing warmth in the most intimate recesses of her body. Rationality whispered in her mind, warning that things were accelerating too swiftly, urging retreat while there was still a chance, but she couldn't.

She melted in his embrace, yielding to kisses that smoldered along the curve of her bosom.

She had believed she understood desire: a magnetic pull between man and woman, drawing them inexorably together. She had thought she knew lust;a hunger, an insatiable craving. Nights had been feverish with dreams of him, days restless and tense with thoughts of him. She had called it animal attraction, primal and wild.

She realized she'd understood nothing.

Desire was a turbulent, inky abyss, wrenching her in every direction, inexorably pulling her downward, beneath reason, volition, and modesty.

She sensed the impatient pull at the laces of her bodice, felt them yield, and it only fueled her own impatience to surrender, to offer whatever he sought. His fingers trembled as they caressed the newly exposed skin, and she trembled too, yearning under his delicately shattering touch.

"Fíla me," his voice rasped, his touch a velvet stroke. "Kiss me, Emma. Again. As though you mean it."

She threaded her fingers through his thick, ebony locks and drew his lips to hers. She kissed him with unabashed fervor, pouring all the meaning she dared into it. She met the bold thrust of his tongue as eagerly as her body responded to the tender conquest of his touch, arching into him, pressing her longing breast against his broad, warm hands.

This was what she had craved, hungered for, since the moment they met. He was a beast, yet she had missed him all the same. She had missed every dreadful facet of him…and every extraordinary one; the strong, sinewy frame exuding power, impudence, and feral grace…the piercing blue eyes, frigid one moment and ablaze with inferno the next…the deep rumble of his voice, mocking, laughing, icy with disdain or throbbing with desire.

She had desired him from the outset, ignorant of its true depths. Now he had enlightened her, igniting an insatiable hunger within.

Breaking away, she pulled his head closer, kissing the long but striking scar, his imperious brow, and tracing her lips along his jawline.

"Oh, Emma," his voice was a husky plea. "Nai. Páli. Fíla me. Ankáliasé me."

Yes, Again. Kiss me. Hug me.

That much she could understand now.

She heard only his urgent plea, felt only the heat of desire melding with her own. Her senses were consumed by the coiled strength of his physique, the warmth of his hands exploring her, his mouth claiming hers once more. She noticed the whisper of silk and fine fabric as he lifted her skirts, sliding his hand up her thigh, the warmth of his touch skimming the exposed skin above her stocking.

Then his hand tightened and froze and his warm body turned to stone.

His lips withdrew abruptly, and startled, Emma blinked open her eyes... only to witness the warmth extinguished in his, leaving them as frigid as the black onyx of his stickpin.

Then, belatedly, she also discerned the faint rustle of a gown against foliage, and hushed murmurs.

"It appears we have an audience, Miss Nolan," Hook remarked. His tone dripped with disdain. Coolly, he adjusted her bodice and smoothed down her skirts. There was no trace of protection or chivalry in the gesture. He made her feel as though, having inspected and tested what she had to offer, he had concluded it wasn't worth pursuing. She might as well have been a trinket on display at Gold's, not meriting a second glance.

With a chilling smirk etched on his countenance, Emma realized that Hook wanted their audience to believe he was casting her aside, a pawn for their amusement. He intended to leave her to fend for herself— that was his revenge.

"We're both complicit in this," she murmured discreetly, ensuring the onlookers couldn't overhear. "You played a part in getting me into this mess, Hook. It's only fair you help me find a way out."

"Ah, yes," he replied loudly. "Supposed to announce an engagement, aren't I? But why, Miss Nolan, should I pay for a ring when I might have everything for free?"

Behind him, she heard gasps and a suppressed giggle. "My reputation will be ruined," she insisted through clenched teeth. "This is beneath you—and unforgivable."

He chuckled darkly. "Then shoot me."

With a mocking glance at their spectators standing in the shadows, he turned on his heel and strode away.


His thoughts swirled in a tempest of humiliation and fury as Killian stormed through the garden, wrenching the gate from its hinges in a fit of blind rage. He marched down narrow alleyways, oblivious to the streets he passed, consumed by his tumultuous emotions.

It wasn't until he approached the Palais Royal that his breathing steadied, and his seething anger began to give way to bitter contemplation.

She was akin to all the rest—like Tinara, but more cunning, a masterful actress who had deftly set a trap of her own making. And he, seasoned by years of experience, had fallen right into it, yet again. Only this time, the consequences were far more damning.

With Tinara, he'd merely stolen a peck on the cheek under the gaze of her rapacious family. Now, however, Paris' finest had witnessed him making an utter fool of himself—moaning, panting, and spouting desires and devotions like a feverish schoolboy.

Even at thirteen, he hadn't mooned about like a love-struck pup. He certainly hadn't nearly shed tears over longing.

Oh, Emma.

His throat constricted. He halted, forcefully swallowing the fiery ache, regaining composure, and continued his march.

At the Palais Royal, he gathered a trio of voluptuous tarts and a motley crew of companions, diving headlong into debauchery. Brothels, gambling dens, and champagne flowed freely—his natural habitat, he reasoned. The place where he found solace, he tried to convince himself.

Thus, he wagered recklessly, imbibed without restraint, and regaled with ribald tales. Swallowing his distaste at the overpowering scent of perfume, powder, and paint, he surrounded himself with courtesans, burying his sorrowful heart, as always, beneath raucous laughter.

—-

Even before Hook's laughter had dissolved into the shadows of the garden, Emma hauled herself from the abyss of humiliated despair into which he had unceremoniously dropped her. There was no option but to lift her chin defiantly and confront the next moment and all that followed. She stared down the onlookers, daring them to utter a word of insult. One by one, they turned away, retreating in silence.

Only Arthur approached, shrugging out of his coat. Clutching her bodice to cover herself, Emma leapt down from the sarcophagus. He hurried over, offering the coat.

"I tried," he said unhappily, his eyes tactfully averted while she draped his coat around herself. "I told them Hook had left alone and you had gone to check on your grandmother, but one of the servants had spotted you entering the sun parlor…" He hesitated. "I'm sorry."

"I'd rather slip away discreetly," she said coolly. "Could you locate Lady Wintercrest for me?"

"I hate to leave you unattended," he replied.

"I don't faint," she assured him. "Or resort to histrionics. I'll manage just fine."

He cast a worried glance before hastening off.

Once he disappeared into the crowd, Emma shed his coat and set about readjusting her gown without the aid of her maid. Most of the fastenings were beyond her reach at the back, but she managed to secure enough to stabilize the bodice, freeing her from the need to hold it up. As she wrestled with ties and hooks, she assessed her predicament with stark objectivity.

She knew full well that it hardly mattered that Hook hadn't defiled her. What mattered was the scandal of being caught with Hook himself. That alone was enough to brand her as damaged goods in the eyes of the entire world.

In less than twenty-four hours, the tale would spread to every corner of Paris. Within a week, it would echo through the salons of London. She could already foresee the grim trajectory of her future.

No self-respecting gentleman would dare tarnish his family's name by entertaining thoughts of marrying a woman tainted by association with Hook. After this debacle, she could forget about attracting the affluent, respectable clientele her business—and her own reputation—relied upon. Society ladies would clutch their skirts to avoid brushing against her, or cross the street to evade the contagion of her scandal. Gentlemen would abandon their decorum and subject her to the same disdain they reserved for the lowest streetwalker.

With a handful of well-placed words, Hook had effectively obliterated her life. Deliberately.

All it would have taken was one of his lethal glances and a command to erase their memories, and they would have eagerly complied. The world cowered before him, even those who called themselves his allies. He had a knack for bending people to his will, shaping their actions, words, and beliefs as effortlessly as molding clay.

Yet, all he sought was vengeance—whatever distorted offense his twisted mind accused her of committing. He had orchestrated this encounter in the garden with malicious intent. She wouldn't put it past him to have subtly hinted to someone beforehand, ensuring that the scandalous discovery unfolded at the most humiliating juncture: her bodice undone, slumped to her waist; his tongue probing her throat; his filthy hand creeping under her skirt.

Despite the blush that tinged her cheeks in recollection, she staunchly refused to be shamed by her actions. Society might deem her conduct indecent, and her own principles might deem it misguided, but it wasn't malevolent. She was a healthy young woman who had succumbed to emotions that countless others indulged in—actions that would be forgiven if she were married or widowed and discreet about it.

Even though she lacked those marital statuses and by conventional standards should have been off-limits, she couldn't, in all fairness, fault him for seizing what was freely offered.

But she could—and would—condemn him for failing to shield her. He stood to lose nothing, and he knew full well that she stood to lose everything. He could have aided her with minimal effort or cost. Instead, he chose to insult and abandon her.

That was the malevolence. That was the ignoble, unpardonable deed.

And that, she resolved with steely determination, was what he would pay for.


At half-past four in the morning, Killian held court at Délice, a restaurant nestled in the Palais Royal. His entourage now included a motley crew of Lady Belfrey's guests— Humbert, Locksley, Scarlet, and Hatter. The topic of Emma Nolan was studiously avoided. Instead, the brawl in the cardroom—between a soused Prussian officer and a fiery French republican—and its ensuing chaos— became the focal point of the heated, and often ill-informed, debate.

Even the courtesans felt compelled to voice their opinions: the one on Killian's right knee siding with the republican cause, while her counterpart on the left staunchly supported the Prussian. Both argued with a blend of political naivety and grammatical ineptitude that would have made David Nolan seem a towering intellect.

Killian cursed himself for letting Nolan's image invade his thoughts. Every glimpse of the brother summoned the sister's presence; Emma peering up at him from under an extravagantly adorned bonnet… scrutinizing his face as he undid her glove… assaulting him with her bonnet and her dainty, gloved fists… kissing him amid lightning flashes and thunderclaps… swirling with him on the dance floor, her skirts whispering around his legs, her eyes gleaming with exhilaration. And later, in his embrace… a tempest of memories, emotions, and one poignant, bittersweet instant… when she pressed her lips to the rugged scar on his cheek and shattered his heart into fragments, only to mend it anew and make him believe he was more than a beast to her. She had made him believe he was beautiful.

Lies, he scoffed inwardly.

It was all a ploy, a ruse to ensnare him. He'd brought ruin upon her brother, leaving her with naught. So, akin to Tinara, whose sibling had squandered their family fortune, Emma Nolan now schemed to etch herself into history by capturing a wealthy, titled husband.

Yet, here was Killian, eyeing the men around him, each a superior catch.

His glance settled on Jefferson, seated beside him—the epitome of male beauty across three continents and, by rumor, perhaps even wealthier than the Marquess of Hookstone himself.

Why not Jefferson? Killian mused. If she sought a wealthy match, why would a sharp-witted woman like Emma Nolan opt for the Devil over the Angel Gabriel — hell over heaven?

Jefferson's cerulean stare locked onto his. "L'amour est aveugle," he murmured with impeccable Parisian flair.

Love is blind.

Killian remembered Jefferson's ominous premonitions weeks ago concerning Boussole Dorée, and the swift chain of events that followed. Now, facing him, Killian sensed an unsettling intuition of his own; that Jefferson, with his cherubic façade, could peer into his thoughts as easily as he had deciphered cryptic clues leading to the downfall of the notorious den of vice.

Just as Killian poised for a withering retort, Jefferson stiffened. His head subtly turned, gaze fixed elsewhere, smile evaporating.

Killian glanced in that direction, eyes trailing towards the door, initially obstructed by Graham's hulking frame as he leaned over for a refill.

Graham settled back into his seat.

Then, Killian spotted her.

Wrapped in a dark crimson gown, buttoned up to her collar, and draped in a black shawl reminiscent of a Spanish mantilla, she approached the grand table. Her countenance was pale but unyielding, her emerald eyes ablaze with determination, and she paused just a few paces away.

His heart lurched and careened into a frenzied sprint, rendering him breathless and speechless.

Her eyes swept over his companions with a disdainful flick.

"Go away," she uttered in a low, steely voice.

The courtesans sprang from his lap, sending glasses flying in their haste. His comrades leapt to their feet and retreated, a chair crashing to the ground unheeded.

Only Jefferson maintained his composure. "Mademoiselle," he began, his tone soothing, conciliatory.

She threw back the shawl, raising her right hand. In it gleamed a pistol, its barrel pointed squarely at Killian's heart. "Leave," she commanded Jefferson.

Killian heard the click of the cocked weapon and the scrape of Jefferson's chair as he stood. "Mademoiselle," he ventured once more.

"Say your prayers, Hook," she declared.

His gaze lifted from the pistol to her glittering, furious eyes. "Emma," he breathed.

She pulled the trigger.