13. Blythe
We’re late to the London Mafia Syndicate meeting because we had sex. Duncan took one look at me in this evening gown, pushed me up against the wall, and had me right there in the hallway. Thankfully, he didn’t rip anything this time, and let me get away with only two orgasms.
And while now, I’m as flushed pink as the exceptionally-expensive bright-flamingo silk of my dress, I don’t complain as everyone turns when we walk into the private function room in an exclusive hotel in Westminster.
The truth is, when Duncan unbuckles his trousers as soon as he sees me, I’m delighted. When he comes inside me, I’m so content.
He appreciates me. I’m sure of that now.
Okay, he doesn’t love me, but…
Yes, that is an issue. Especially because after a month of breeding me, Duncan seems to have achieved exactly what he wanted: I’m pregnant.
My period was due yesterday, and it was a bit optimistic, I guess, but when I didn’t see anything, I went straight to the shop and bought a test.
Four. I bought four.
Multiple sticks were peed on, and all said the same thing. I don’t know if I’m elated, or terrified, but mostly I’m both.
“It’s okay,” Duncan says, rubbing my shoulder as I nudge closer to him. He heads towards a group of men standing around, some holding pints of beer or glasses of amber scotch, others just chatting and laughing, hands in pockets, or discussing something serious, pouring over a tablet.
“Ah! This is our new recruit!” A girl with long blonde hair that falls in loose curls halfway down her arms sashays up to us before we can reach the group of men.
I blink. They know about me?
“Welcome to the London Mafia Smut Club.” She takes my arm. “You don’t mind if we steal your wife, do you?” It’s a rhetorical question, clearly, because she’s towing me away from Duncan.
I glance over my shoulder, but he’s watching with laughter in his eyes, and mouths, “Be good.”
“Now.” My girl-captor pulls me down onto a squishy sofa on the other side of the room. “Not everyone is here for our book club this week. Some bugs are going around the kids.” There are a dozen women lolling on sofas, some who are familiar from the many events with Duncan. They are mainly in formal evening dresses like me, but most have eReaders, and one is absorbed in a paperback with a cartoon of a hockey player on the cover. They look up as I sit.
“Everyone, this is Blythe Blackstone. Blythe, this is—” She rattles off names and London mafia territories that I don’t catch because I’m blown away at being described as Blythe Blackstone. I know I’ve been married for a month. I’m really Duncan’s wife, in the eyes of the world, at least. They all smile as though they’re happy to meet me.
“So, do you read smut, or do we have to persuade you?” Anwyn, the blonde who fetched me, asks.
“I like to read spicy books,” I admit.
“Excellent, so we can go straight to gossip.” Anwyn smiles and takes a sip of her drink and pins me with a look and leaving an inviting silence.
“It’s so sweet to have another age-gap love match,” Felicity, a girl with black hair and soft grey eyes, says, ignoring Anwyn.
“It’s not.” My heart aches to admit it, but they seem nice. “It’s a sham. He wanted a wife…” I can’t bring myself to say “to fuck”, though that’s the truth of it. “And I wanted a husband and family. It’s just a marriage of convenience.”
Wow, I’m pathetic. Better than saying I’m in love with my husband and he was only looking for a woman of my height and colouring to slake his considerable needs on. Multiple times a day. With orgasms for me as well, seemingly as a matter of honour. He’s an excellent husband by every standard—rich and generous, kind and attentive in bed, considerate out of bed. It’s not his fault that I pine for his love.
“Not a love match.” Felicity snorts. “I’ve heard this story before from Lina.”
“Blackstone is looking at you as though he’d devour you whole, but he’s not in love.” Lina, the other black-haired girl, hers in a high ponytail, laughs. “Sure.”
“No, really, it’s just—” I protest.
“Trust me, when a man looks at you like that, what’s going on for him is far from convenient,” Anwyn cut me off. “I remember that expression on Benedict’s face when he was still trying to keep to some arbitrary standard of honour and stay away from me because I used to date his son.”
Ohhh… I look at Anwyn anew. “And now you’re married, and it’s for real?”
She smiles happily. “And got babies to prove how real.”
That doesn’t comfort me. Because I’ve got the beginnings of a baby, and that’s the reverse of proving it’s genuine. I wish…
I glance over at where the men are sitting around in various states of tension and ease. I find the tall figure of my husband immediately. His auburn hair makes him stand out, as does the dark-green shirt he’s wearing that makes him appear like an excellent tree I’d love to climb.
“Angel, if you can’t keep your temper—” The Brent leader raises his voice, sounding very much as though he’s the one losing his temper.
“You gavno Italians!” says a Russian-accented voice. “She could have died!”
“Brent can’t take responsibility for all the Italian mafias any more than I can for the Scottish.” Duncan has clearly taken on the role of peacekeeper in this situation, which is pretty amazing given the number of times I’ve seen him return home covered in blood.
“I’m trying to help,” Brent snarls back.
Duncan sighs and stands. “Maybe you could?—”
The Russian pulls out a gun and three things happen at once: a shot is fired, my heart attempts to escape from my chest via my mouth but gets caught at the neck, I dive across the room in a futile attempt to do something heroic and foolish, Duncan rolls his eyes, and the kingpin of Westminster says, “For fuck’s sake, do you Bratva have no respect for decorum?”
I’m propelled forward by pure instinct. I have to save Duncan.
How would I save him? I have no idea, and that’s impressed on me when every one of the tall, suited, mafia bosses turn to look at me.
I come to a halt in front of Duncan, who looks down at me in alarm and surprise. “What’s the matter?”
I’m shaking with fear, that’s what. I’m terrified and unable to speak.
There was a gun fired and Duncan was mere feet from danger. I see the Westminster kingpin snap something and the Russian puts away his weapon with a grumble.
It was… No, it wasn’t nothing. Duncan could have been killed and all I’d have is his baby and not enough memories.
I can’t cope.
“Blythe?” Duncan demands.
I turn. The first step is just fast, my legs tangling in my dress. Then within a second I’m running, and there are the signs for the ladies’ toilets, and I barge in and my god it must be the pregnancy hormones because I’ve never felt so panicked and scared and ready to take on a stupid gun that would kill me easily to protect my husband who doesn’t need my help.
I’m an idiot and tears prickle behind my eyes as I throw myself into a toilet cubicle and lean my forehead against the smooth papered wall, the floral pattern swimming before my eyes.
A door slams.
“Blythe.” Duncan’s voice is urgent and low and something I’ve never heard before from him. He beats on the door to my cubicle. “Blythe!”
Scared. He sounds as terrified as I was when I thought he was in danger. When I believed for one horrible, leaden moment that my husband might die and my lizard brain wanted to protect him at all costs.
My convenient husband, who hasn’t told his daughter about me. I’m a fraud, who didn’t understand the most important line in his advert.
No love.
Whatever Felicity saw, she’s wrong.
“Blythe!” Duncan slams his palm on the wood. “Let me in right now or I’ll break the door down.”