She shifted her aching arms, her gaze drifting to a large male form in the upper balcony. Harry Marshall. He watched her intently—he always seemed to be watching her and every time their gazes met her skin tingled and her pulse jumped. He stood, and for a moment she thought he was going to come to her. But he just watched, sipped his whiskey, stubbed out his cigarette.

She closed her eyes. No one was going to help her. And the worst part was she had brought it on herself. Not that she regretted her attempt at stealing, even though it was utterly against her morals. She felt justified in this case. She hadn't stolen anything—she had attempted to retrieve what rightly belonged to her. What her grandmother and mother had passed down.

What she regretted was getting caught.

A sharp crack struck the floor about six inches from her left foot, shaking her out of her reverie. A whip. Cain had a whip. She didn't know if he meant to miss or not, but either way she wanted that thing out of his hand. He had very limited experience with the dangerous tool.

"Cain, you idiot. Put it down now."

"No. The moment you decided to become a thief you gave up all your rights. I won't tolerate disrespect from you. Now brace yourself for your punishment—"

"Excuse me." Harry Marshall looked down at them, still and calm.

Like the eye of a storm.

She didn't know much about him—he never participated, just watched. But the mayor had requested they give him a membership, and Sandine hadn't hesitated in doing so. In this town you didn't disobey the mayor and expect to tell about it.

He rarely spoke, but she had the deliberate feeling no detail,...