Dayan
She's shivering.
The fine hairs on her arms have stood up. Goosebumps run down the soft inside of her wrist where the light from the porch catches it, and there's a tremor in her chin, small, the kind a proud woman tries to swallow before anyone sees it.
The cold's been working her over this whole drive and I let it. Watched it instead of fixing it.
"You're freezing," I say.
"I'm fine."
"Don’t lie to me." I shrug out of my jacket before she can argue, drop it over her shoulders, and the breath she lets out when the warmth hits her does something low and ugly to my self-control. "Inside. Now."
"Was that a request?" she asks, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow.
Why is that sexy?
"No."
She huffs, but she pulls the jacket tight, and I watch her gather herself like a hand of cards she's not ready to show.
I climb out of the car quickly and get the door for her.
The house swallows us in heat and warm light. She stops in the entry and looks up, taking in the stone and the height of it. I don’t know why she is surprised, she must have grown up in a nicer place than this.
"Whisky?" I ask as I open the door. "Tea? Something to put the color back in you."
"Whisky." She rubs her arms under my jacket. "Please."
I pour two and hand her one while wondering if she chose whiskey only for the warmth... I watch her wrap both palms around the glass like it's a small fire, and the shiver in her finally lets go.
"You said no negotiation," she says. "At the table."
"I did."
"And now?"
I lean against the counter. Put a careful three feet between us, because three feet is about all I trust myself with right now.
"Now you're in my house and the deal's done," I say. "So we negotiate. You tell me what you want. I tell you how I can make it happen." I tip the glass at her. "Start with an easy one."
She studies me over the rim. Sharp even cold, even rattled. "Tell me you didn't just buy me to lock me in a tower somewhere or use me as some kind of leverage against my family name."
"I didn't buy you to lock you anywhere. Or for leverage against some Brit family I don’t know." Plain. No armor on it. "Ask me for something real."
She's quiet for a second. Then. "My sister.
Cecily." Her chin lifts. "You said the men your father lets through the door aren't your kind.
So tell me. The man my whole family's losing their minds over.
Connor Calhoun. American, oil-adjacent money, smile like a toothpaste ad.
You people know everybody. What's the read? "
I set my glass down.
"You want the polite truth or the glossy version?"
The color drains right back out of her. "Don't start being polite with me now."
"Connor Calhoun." I say his name slowly so I can watch her face.
"The family money's real. Was real. His grandfather's.
By the time it got to him there wasn't much left but the name and the way he wears it.
" I think of the file Serik flagged eight months back, the one I almost didn't read.
"He's underwater. Deep. Borrowed against things that aren't his.
There are men in two countries waiting on him to make good, and he can't, and a wedding into a respectable family with a respectable name and bank balance to match is a very clean way to look solvent while you sink. "
Her glass has gone still in her hands.
"You're saying he's marrying her for my family’s money."
"I'm saying he's marrying her for cover." My jaw tightens. "There's a difference. Money he could get other ways. What he needs is a name nobody questions. Your sister's a clean answer to a dirty problem."
"You could be wrong." She places the glass down on the counter, slides it away from her as a natural part of the movement while she absorbs the blow.
"I could." I hold her eyes. "I'm not."
Her hands are shaking again, but it's got nothing to do with cold now.
"Six months," she whispers. "She met him six months ago and the whole family handed him to her like a prize. And the one person they all think is broken... " A laugh comes out of her, flat and humorless. "I'm the problem. I'm the one who's too particular."
"Amelia."
"Don't." She holds up a hand. Breathes. Gathers herself back together, card by card, and when she looks at me again her eyes are wet and furious and absolutely steady. "Can you prove it?"
I think about the file. The men waiting for what they’re owed. What it'd cost to pull the thread loose where she could see it.
"Yes," I say.
"Then that's what I want." Her chin comes up, defiance worn like good manners and armor, like the only thing she's got left. "First negotiation. You prove it. Before that girl marries a lie with my family cheering from the pews."
She has no idea what she's just asked me for. No idea what doors it opens, or what walks through them.
"Consider it done," I say.
She nods slowly, suspicion at how easily I agreed crossing her face before she accepts it. She might not believe it right now, but I’ll make sure she understands by the time she marries me. I mean what I say.
She nudges her glass of whiskey around the countertop, the rough sound of glass sliding over the butcher block, filling the silence.
“Now you,” she finally says, lifting her eyes back to mine and taking a sip of whiskey as though to steel herself against what I’m about to say.
“You already know. I want a wife beside me. I want to breed my wife and have a house full of kids. A legacy. A huge family to protect. It’s not something I ever thought I’d have.”
The only time I see any reaction from her when I say this is a small flicker of her eyebrows when I use the word “breed”. But it’s the truth. As much as I don’t want to scare her off right now, she should go into this with her eyes wide open.
She considers what I’ve said for a moment. “I think we are aligned in what we want our futures to look like,” she finally says, lifting her glass forward. I clink mine to hers and we both drain our remaining drinks.
“So, when do we start all this?” she asks, once the burn has subsided.
“Whenever you’re ready. The marriage won’t be instant, my eldest brother, Rovin, he will set the pace as all five of us will be marrying in quick succession, I imagine. And there’s the matter of your residency here in the US…” I trail off, waiting for her to fill the gaps in what I know.
“Dual citizen. My mother is American.”
“And are there any…traditions or expectations I should know about?” I ask, still surprised at how oddly willing she is to blow up her life and marry a man like me.
She shrugs. “I’m past caring. I did everything they wanted my whole life. Now I’m making the decisions and I choose this. I choose you. The rest we will make work, because one thing I will never allow to happen between us is a divorce. We deal with whatever gets thrown at us as a team.”
I nod in agreement.
“Now, shall we go to bed and make sure we are compatible? Or do you still want to negotiate?”