Page 82 of Once a Rogue
Heart still too fast, Wesley turned his arm to press his sleeve to the wall. Hope, faith—truly these were the worst of all emotions, and damn Sebastian for creating them in him.
For a moment, nothing happened, and Wesley’s heart plummeted. This was exactly why one should never have hope—
And then his arm went through like the invisible wall had turned to tissue, the glittering magic in that space dissipating into the air like dust blown off a shelf.
“Yes,” Arthur said, tightening his fists in excitement. “Bless his stupid magic that knocks us to the floor. Think you can make openings big enough for us to climb through?”
Wesley nodded, throat momentarily gone too tight to speak. Sebastian wasn’t even here and his magic was still going to free them, and fuck, Wesley was having emotions again.
A few moments later, Wesley was out of his room and working on Arthur’s barrier. Then Arthur squeezed his way out and grabbed Wesley in a giant hug.
“God, thank you, Wes,” he said.
And it was a funny thing to be struck by in that moment, but it was almost exactly like being hugged by Mateo—a hug that felt nothing like an old lover and everything like a brother. Like no matter how winding the path, he and Arthur had found their way to the friendship they were meant to have.
“Move your legs, Ace,” Wesley finally said, “or Iwillmock your sentiment.”
Arthur clapped him on the back, and then they took off down the hall.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Arthur and Wesley crept down the hall on quiet feet, eyes and ears alert. At the end of the hall was a window, and just to its left, a flight of stairs. Wesley paused at the window and very carefully glanced outside, then quickly flattened himself to the wall. “One guard.”
“Just one?”
“It’s not like Langford and Alasdair would expect us to escape magically sealed cells,” said Wesley. “I saw this one earlier. He knows about magic and also bounces at Alasdair’s club. He’s big and loyal.”
“Is he.” Arthur smiled with narrowed eyes. “We’re big. And angry. I like our odds, let’s go.”
And he was slipping down the stairs, fast and graceful enough to remind Wesley he’d been an athlete before the war and still boxed for fitness. It wasn’t an actual plan so much as it was Arthur charging into danger like an idiot, but Wesley seemed to have caught the disease as well because he followed.
At the bottom of the stairs, they stood on either side of the door. Hinges on the outside. No lock.
They met each other’s eyes, and Wesley nodded once.
Arthur turned, and in one smooth, powerful motion, kicked down the door.
The man outside turned, already reaching for a holster under his jacket, but Wesley and Arthur had the advantage of numbers and surprise. Before their guard could aim, Arthur landed a lead hook that sent the man staggering and the gun clattering to the gravel. He tried to steady himself and swing back, but Arthur dodged, then followed up with a jab-cross combo he’d probably learned in the ring.
The man went down. Arthur planted a foot on his chest. “Where are the others?”
The man turned his head to the side, spit out blood. “I’m not saying shit. Throw all the punches you want. I’ve seen magic; I’ll take my chances with you two.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
Wesley picked the revolver up off the gravel. “My turn.”
He strode back over to the pair, where Arthur’s oxford was still pressed to the man’s chest to keep him pinned.
The man’s gaze was on Wesley. “You shoot me, you still lose,” he said, but this time, it lacked conviction.
Wesley crouched down next to the man’s head. With any luck, his words and reputation alone would be enough; he refused to think about the possibility they wouldn’t. “We met earlier.”
The man’s expression flickered.
“What was it Langford said about me?” Wesley said, in a conversational tone better suited for chatting about the weather. “Inventive? Ruthless? Oh, that’s right: iron stomach for other people’s pain. Does magic have that?”
The man shrank back.
