Dashforth made a ladylike sound of shock and lost what little color he had in his face to begin with.
“I have business to discuss with you,” Argent informed him, trying to squelch the strength of a strange emotion surging through him. Something murderous. Something dark. Something to do with the fact that this man was a threat to Millie.
“How interesting that you should come by today,” Dashforth remarked, scurrying to regain his composure. “I assume your charge is finally carried out and you’re here for your payment?”
Argent ignored the question, stalking closer to the wiry man. “Which of your clients wanted Millie LeCour dead?”
The corners of Dashforth’s mouth appeared beneath his mustache in a consternated frown. “I fail to see how that is relevant—” He made a choking sound as Argent’s hand almost encircled the entirety of his scrawny neck.
“It is not wise to make me repeat myself.”
Dashforth squeaked, scratching at Argent’s hand with frantic fingers. “You don’t—understand,” he wheezed.
The worm was right, Argent didn’t understand. Couldn’t comprehend why anyone would want a brave, vivacious, desirable woman like Millicent LeCour dead. He didn’t understand the power she had over him. And he couldn’t begin to describe the physical phenomenon awakening in his body.
A storm surge of strength, power, viciousness, and violence. A beast of some kind stirred in his cold, dormant heart, and this beast was hungry for blood. For sex.
And for something else he had no name for. Something he knew only Millie could provide. Something he desired above all else, and couldn’t for the life of him identify.
“Tell your employer that Millie LeCour belongs to me now.” Reaching in his pocket with his free hand, Argent retrieved a banknote for the obscene amount Dashforth had offered, and tucked it into the breast pocket of the solicitor’s suit. “She’s not planning to reveal the boy’s parentage. She has no need for blackmail, notoriety, or legitimacy. Millie is not a threat to anyone, but I certainly am.” He released the gaping solicitor to grapple with something he’d thought long dead.
His temper.
“Y-you’re canceling a contract?” Dashforth sputtered, his fingers pressed against his tender throat. “A-are you certain that’s wise? Your reputation … let alone your livelihood—”
“I know you’re not threatening me, Dashforth.” Argent stepped toward him again, and the small man paled impossibly further. “My threats are infinitely more fatal.”
“I’ll tell you nothing but this.” Dashforth dropped onto the dainty couch, his beady eyes gleaming with smug secrets. “They’ll keep coming after her. Though you think you are the only monster that stalks the night, I assure you there are more dangerous men out there, and they’ll do the job you weren’t man enough to do. They’ll kill you, and then slaughter your precious actress.”
An audible crack reverberated through Argent’s bones, as dangerous as a rift in a dam. Except it wasn’t cold water being released from a reservoir. But fire. It ripped through him, crawling through the sinew of his body with startling strength. He was drunk with anger. Swollen with it, awash in the delicious, violent heat of it.
He snatched up the solicitor by the lapels and gave him a shake like a mongrel’s chew toy. “Listen here, you weakling boy-fucker, if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I will kill you. Slowly.”
“Not as slowly as some,” the solicitor said, an odd sort of acceptance creeping into his eyes. “If you want the actress, take her before he comes for her. Because nothing will stop him.”
Awash in a rage the likes of which he hadn’t been subject to for decades, Argent growled as he slammed Dashforth into the wall, relishing the sound of the man’s head cracking against the solid wood. “Give me a name!”
The solicitor slumped, his eyes rolling up behind fluttering lids, his neck no longer holding his head aloft. It lolled to the side, and Argent could see blood painting the wallpaper where the skull had collided. In his anger, he’d forgotten the true force of his strength.
He didn’t have much time.
“Talk, damn you.” Argent commanded, shaking the limp body.
“Thurston … Thinks … he’s the father … of the boy,” Dashforth roused himself to say. “You’re too late … took … too long. There’s another.”
“What do you mean?” Argent demanded.
The man slumped, completely unconscious and heavy in his arms.
Argent let him drop in a heap to the floor, and then ran trembling hands through his hair. He’d been too hard, too out of control. He could have used different means to extract information, manipulation, intimidation, or compulsion. Now, though Dashforth was still alive, he might not survive his head wound. If he did survive, he might warn Fenwick that Argent was coming for him.
Because come for him, he would.
Extracting his garrote from his pocket, Argent stood over the prone man who’d landed on his face. Blood trickled from his slick hair down his thin neck.
This wouldn’t take long.
Dashforth wouldn’t be visiting the bordellos tonight. The young boys would be safe from him. The wealthy would have to find another unscrupulous solicitor to do their bidding.
In a fluid motion, Argent made certain the man would never again wake.
“Sir Dashforth?” A shadow appeared behind the tempered glass a moment before the rap of a knock slammed Argent back into cold reality. “I heard a commotion, Dashforth. Are you all right?”