Chapter 23
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Xavier
N o one.
Nothing.
I smoke a cigarette. For the cause. It’s breaking the Emmie rules I’ve set for myself, but I’m dressed as a member of the upper class, something no one ever suspects me as being if they look.
Killian?
He can blend.
But I lean against the lamp post opposite.
On one side of me’s a busy dive, the kind those from the Upper Side learn not to go to, and none of them are among the patrons.
I’ve been in there, had a drink with the owner who wanted to ask about the outfit, and did, but…
I declined to whip out my phone to type anything out.
Being mute has its perks.
The thing with the rich is even when they dress down it’s obvious who they are.
They wear blockers. Perfumes, all kinds of things to try to disguise their scent and that, more than anything, is a dead giveaway.
Not even Councilmen or women are good at hiding it.
None of them want to appear in public naked. Because that’s what they’d be. Naked. Stripped of disguise and rank and reduced to nothing but their unique scent. Something we down in the Lower Side know about.
We don’t use those foolish things.
Iris…
I stop, start walking again, taking my time as I type notes on my phone like I’m texting and I circle the block.
Iris… She had some kind of sexual, visceral reaction in that meeting room. To me. To Killian.
And she nearly lost her shit.
It’s why I’m more than happy to patrol. I don’t need to be in there to know the plans and whatever they decide.
I fucking know what they want. What we all want.
And what they do…I’m guessing they’ll continue to chip away at the status quo, try and reach the Monarch, but she won’t take a meeting. Not with us.
Still, for Emmie’s future, I either want something done or for us to start somewhere else.
Killian’s right in a way. If we do that, we’re just prolonging the inevitable, because Council reach, if it’s not tempered, will slowly overtake and infiltrate everywhere.
The irises that Iris smells of are true to the flower; I remember them as a kid. Strange and beautiful flowers. Slender stalks and soft petals that have a romantic and almost sensual look.
I think they’re a messenger to the gods, and come in many shades. The spice is delicate, the musk intimate, and all with that sweetness that belies strength. A messenger is strong, able to wear many mantles or colors.
It’s an apt flower and name for our girl.
Our.
I let it sit in my head, and it does before sinking down to become one with my flesh.
Iris belongs to me and Killian in ways Tamara never did.
Except Iris is true royalty, true class. And that puts her out of our league in a tangible way.
We’re going to have her, taste her. But Killian and I are realists. Iris is fleeting, something to be savored like a whisper on the wind.
Of course, all this is contingent on whether we survive this.
There are those out there, those who are more dangerous than the Council, those that’ll do anything to stop the world changing, who’ll kill to keep the status quo.
I finish the cigarette and crush it out, leaning against a wall in an alley, the perfect spot to watch to see if there are watchers.
We’re not at the spot where we told Iris to meet us, and I doubt she told anyone that location. There’s only one person I think she’d tell, and we’d know by now, because there’s no way someone like Iris would let her friend stand alone in that part of the Lower Side.
Messenger. It really is apt. And it’s part of why I volunteered for look out tonight. I don’t want to be there if Killian starts trying to manipulate her. If? He will. It’s Killian.
There’s only two people he’s loyal to. Me and Emmie, and I come in second. As I should.
For both of us, Emmie is the world.
And Iris…
She’s nothing but a hot piece he can use.
Thing is—she’s young and rich and hungry, and not just for us. She wants change, too. At least she thinks she does.
I sigh.
Tired of making notes, I flip to the Stitch feed, a place where gossip always gives glimpses of any news.
I stop in my tracks.
Holy fuck.
Trouble.