Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
Xavier
F ucking typical. Banton didn’t ask who the girl was, didn’t even look at her.
Not that I can talk to him.
But I can make myself exceptionally clear when I need to.
Without pen and paper.
Without a phone or device.
Without signing.
I’m fucking six foot seven. People usually know what I want to communicate. When I want to communicate.
“Riven.” He signs the papers and roughly folds them, sliding the leather envelope in with it.
It’s not really an envelope, more a conceit Killian and I thought up for when we do deals around Sabine. All the client does is slide in the cash or paper envelope, and we move on.
I hold the papers and envelope, only half listening as he goes on.
“Listen, I’ll let you and Black know if this stuff’s a hit.”
I raise a brow, weighing the bundle in my hand. It feels a little…light.
“You know my employers love the quality of the wines and spirits you get. Top notch, and I’m sure this’ll be no different.”
He doesn’t understand sign. I could use my pad and paper, but there’s no need. I hear him. I slide the papers and leather envelope into my pocket.
So, Banton I sign, slow and deliberately. He knows his name at least. Killian warned him to know that much, while I’m a little more placid than people expect.
Killian’s the reckless, wild one, the one who seems to think trouble’s one of his best friends.
But when I need to mete out punishment or violence, I will. With everything I’ve got.
We’re not there, yet. After all, Banton’s people are some of our best customers.
I wait until he swallows hard.
You think you can skim? Think the fuck again.
Wrong move. Even if he’s one of our best customers, we don’t need him or his business. We can always move on, find someone else.
I will cut you off if you shortchange us or try to again in the future. I pull out the leather envelope and hand it to him, without counting it. So, I’d suggest putting the full amount in now.
He quivers and then he takes it. “You know what, Riven?”
What? I sign at him.
“I, uh, think I’ll cover the risk by paying the full amount. They did want to test it out, first, but I’m betting they’ll want more. Maybe a discount then, eh?”
Nice try.
I offer him a smile, then I check my watch.
It takes him only a moment to walk off and return with a wad of cash in hand. When he gives it to me, I start to count in front of him.
Banton turns redder with each bill I shift over. I realize that he’s put too much in now, so I hand him the extra back. This time, I pull out my pad and paper, and scribble out three words. Then I hand him over an extra fifty.
For being honest , it says.
“Of course. Always.”
We finish the deal, and I let him think he’s still getting a bargain. Rich cunt’s are bad enough; their servants are worse. He still paid double. But normally, I leave such pandering up to Killian. He likes games. I don’t.
This is as far as I go. A fifty tip to promote honesty, money we factor into the cost.
But I’m done and so is Banton. He disappears inside, and I move away from the main house across the grounds.
It’s a nice night, full of stars, and the kind of clear sky I remember from my rural life on the mainland when I lived there. I was maybe four, Emmie’s age. I don’t remember much of that time, but I do remember a sky like this.
Shit, I’m going soft.
I light a cigarette and lean against what used to be a carriage house that’s been turned into a state-of-the-art garage/show room for the owner’s cars. Flashy dicks on wheels if you ask me.
I blow out a stream of smoke, savoring the tobacco and the nicotine hit as I indulge in the once a week—if that—treat.
Because Emmie ‘don’t like Papa smellin’ crumbly,’ so it’s once a week, max.
Now all I have to do is work out what in hell the little pint of trouble means by crumbly.
I smile.
Emmie.
That little girl who rules my heart.
I’d do anything for her and so would Killian.
That’s why I was in that room.
Emmie.
The only reason I’m down here really is because I was passing by the room when a glint of shining white caught my attention. There, on a shelf, in a stream of moonlight, was the thing that now sits in my pocket.
It’s probably worthless to the fucks who own the house, so he won’t miss it.
In all honesty it could be trash, and Emmie wouldn’t care. She doesn’t care about cost. The kid’s four. She just has certain likes, and I happen to love that little kid more than anything else. So I took it.
Emmie will love it.
Simple as fucking that.
Then I found the girl dressed in what looked to be mourning clothes.
Iris.
A pretty name for a pretty girl. And I say girl because she’s young, maybe twenty, twenty-one.
I take a breath. The stars seem to seep into me, swell. Iris.
Pretty isn’t the right word for her name or the girl. Iris is an unusual flower, and it fits that brief momentary glimpse of her. And pretty? More like beautiful.
Those are semantics. A pretty girl and a dance in a room.
I almost laugh. I state that like it’s ordinary.
Like she’s ordinary.
But she isn’t, is she?
I know what the fuck she is.
A perfect society Omega.
One with attitude and a little more personality than most, but still a society Omega.
One I wanted to taste.
That’s the kicker.
I wanted to taste her the moment I touched her, smelled the lightest hint of fresh flowers and musk, something almost not there. Blockers? Must be. Who the fuck knows or cares.
But she was warm, beautiful, and I wanted to kiss her.
Her skin, as I held her close, made me want to run my tongue over its warm silk.
Too chatty, though.
I drop the cigarette with a sigh.
Not like I’ll be seeing her again, anyway. I don’t mess with the upper assholes.
I grind the cigarette out, turn, and walk back to the Black Briar.
Guess I’ll never know what she tastes like.
Probably for the best.
A fantasy of endless possibilities is better than the bitter letdown of reality.