There was something about watching the girl write on the floor of his drawing room that both abhorred and intrigued him. She didn’t give in, didn’t show an ounce of shame when she soiled herself in front of him and his family. She’d refused to back down from Bella’s glare, and she had spit into the other woman’s face, calling whatever was within him to full attention. And then Bella had slashed through the girl’s artery and he’d watched as her blood drained out onto the floor around her and stained the pristine tile crimson, altogether missing the searing in his palm until he’d retired for the evening. It lay hidden beneath a glamour even now.