Chapter 17
REID
I keep thinking I catch a whiff of my come and the scent of sex when Callie moves, and I’m a possessive arsehole, because I like it. I love it.
She’s mine, and I want everyone to know it.
“Woodford, you’re ruining the aesthetic, I told you it was a fae ball.”
I turn to stare back at the glowering face of Grant Lambeth. He’s irritated, and his South London accent is more pronounced than usual.
“It’s hard to take you seriously when you’re wearing bat wings.” He’s in a costume of black leather in some sort of fantasy style, complete with pointy ears.
Lambeth folds his arms and shakes his head. “My wife arranged it, and it’s excellent. But this,” he plucks at the lapel of my tuxedo, “isn’t good enough.”
I press my hand reassuringly into Callie’s waist. She’s gone stiff with worry, but there’s really no reason.
Lambeth won’t touch me, and he’s such a softie that he would do anything for his wife.
Including unalive anyone who threatens her, arrange for all the London Mafia Bosses to come to the event that she organised, and nag actual kingpins about not adhering to the dress code.
He’s even wearing leather and wings.
There’s no trace of self-consciousness in his movements, either.
His wife wanted this—I’m certain it wasn’t Lambeth—and so he’s there.
I’ve never given his actions any thought one way or another before, but I understand now.
I’d lie on hot coals for Callie. I’d be shot again, so she has to continue tending my wound. Bat wings? Hardly registers.
“My apologies. If you have a tiara, I’ll put it on. But only if you have a matching one for Callie.”
Lambeth slides his indifferent gaze over to Callie. “Nice to meet you, Callie.”
“Are you feeling better?” Edmonton, a massive Russian man emerges from the crowd and catches my eye.
A few of the members of the London Mafia Syndicate are just behind him.
They’re mainly my neighbours, but there are a few, like Norwood, who are overly interested in violence and have been involved with the Essex situation, and Westminster and Mayfair, who think they run the whole of London so are always at the centre of any discussion.
“I’m still alive, if that’s what you mean,” I reply.
“You ask an old friend about his potentially fatal injury and get grumbled at,” Lambeth says to Edmonton, shaking his head at me. Edmonton shrugs with Russian philosophicalness.
Are we friends?
Huh. Strange. I tighten my hold on Callie. I spend time with these men, but I’ve never really thought about them as my friends. My colleagues, yes. My men are my employees. They’re the people I spend most time with—apart from Callie these days—but they’re not my confidants or my friends.
I look down into Callie’s face, and her thoughts are all over her expressive face. She thinks I’m being rude.
I take a breath. “Sorry. It’s much better, thanks.”
“How is the scar tissue holding up? Has it gone tight and itchy yet?” Westminster asks intently, his posh accent deep and plummy.
“Yeah, that’s a horrible stage.” Edmonton makes a face. “I swear the itching is worse than the initial pain. Pure fucking torture.”
“It itches like a bitch,” I admit.
And then everyone is talking about various wounds they’ve had, and whether knife wounds that slice are worse than penetrative wounds.
I discover that I’m not the only one who has had a bullet in the upper arm, and Mayfair has advice about physio.
Lambeth is insistent that knife wounds to the hands are the most painful thing he’s ever experienced, and Edmonton shows off an honestly impressive scar on his lower leg, where it looks like a shark took a bite out of him.
I’m surprised to find I’m enjoying myself.
I wonder. Maybe these men could be my friends? Perhaps they already are. And would Callie be my…? Just mine, if I asked her.
There’s a sense that everything is possible at this ridiculous fairy ball. It must be the glitter, or the scent of jasmine, or the over-the-top costumes. It makes me feel like I could take on anything, and I wouldn’t have to be alone.
Even if I still don’t want anyone but Callie touching me.
“Oh I love your dress!” Lambeth’s blonde wife appears next to him, and smiles at Callie.
“Darling, Callie is not fresh meat for your book club,” Lambeth says dryly.
Mayfair and Westminster are totally distracted comparing knife scars on their arms, having to remove parts of their complicated leather costumes to see them.
“What?!” His wife widens her eyes innocently. “That’s a shocking thing to say!”
“It’s also the truth.”
“I didn’t claim it wasn’t. But what if you scare her away and I can’t get her to come and read smutty monster romances with us because you went in too hard?” His wife pats his chest playfully.
Callie laughs, and even though it’s not for me, it’s such a lovely sound.
“No fear, I’ll try your monster books. I’ll even watch the movie.”
“Ohhh you like movies? We’ve done some really fun multi-format binges, with each of us taking a different version, and then comparing notes. I’m Jessa, by the way.” Jessa leans in and takes Callie’s arm and says conspiratorially, “Come and meet the rest of the London Mafia Smut Club.”
Callie hesitates and glances up at me.
I’d prefer to keep her at my side, but it’s better if she doesn’t hear all the mafia business I need to discuss. I nod and reluctantly let her go. “Have fun. Call me if you need me, and I’ll come and find you later.”
“Eeee!” Jessa squeals. “Let’s tell Lina. She’s going to be happy there’s a new mafia wife.”
“Oh I’m not his wife!” Callie protests. But when she checks with me, there’s a hint of longing in it.
That’s sweet. She’ll find out soon enough. But not here. I just give her a wink, and a half smile.
“Not yet,” I murmur as Jessa drags Callie away, chatting about books
“Fiancée? Girlfriend?” Lambeth raises one eyebrow curiously.
I continue to look after Callie as she’s swallowed into the crowd. “She doesn’t know it, but yeah. Both.”
“You know, the London Mafia Syndicate does have guidelines about kidnap,” Lambeth says insincerely.
“I’m aware. She’s living safely at her own house.” I fold my arms. “No kidnap.”
Lambeth makes a sceptical noise. “Why do I think that’s not the full story.”
“Because you’re fucking nosey,” I snap. That “friends” thing didn’t last long. Or maybe it did? Because Lambeth just seems amused by my outburst.
“This is all very cute,” Edmonton says quietly. “But what does this mean for the marriage to consolidate the tie to Loughton?”
“I’m not doing it.” That’s part of why I wanted to meet with the other interested parties.
Edmonton swears colourfully in Russian, and I don’t blame him. Combining this troublesome closest Essex neighbour with my London mafia makes sense, but I didn’t want to do it before because Loughton’s daughter is so young. Now I have a stronger reason.
I’m in love with Callie. The thought of being with anyone who isn’t her physically hurts.
“Look, this is serious.” Edmonton’s brow is furrowed. His territory is almost as near to Essex as mine. “I don’t have to tell you that, but Loughton is damaged and messy. They’ll retaliate for the death of their leader, and a wedding might mend the treaty.”
“Did you not listen? He has a wife now.” This comes from Lambeth, who looks at Edmonton like he’s crazy.
“What? Are congratulations in order?” Westminster turns back to us, clearly having been distracted by comparing scars with Mayfair.
“For fuck’s sake, and you didn’t invite us to the wedding, Woodford?” grumbles Mayfair. “Lina likes weddings. Says they’re inspiring for her writing.”
Westminster smirks. “You’re not inspiration enough for your author wife?”
“Inspiring enough to have more children than you,” Mayfair shoots back.
“I wasn’t suggesting Woodford marry into Loughton, but I think someone should,” Edmonton manages to slide in his rebuttal to Lambeth.
“Calm down, you’re all invited to my wedding,” Norwood interrupts.
“Oh, thanks. Lina will be pleased.” Mayfair brightens and slaps Norwood on the arm companionably.
I wince and take a small step away. Russians don’t express their friendship physically often, but if they do, it’s borderline violent. I almost want to show Callie to demonstrate how necessary she is here.
But unsolicited slaps aside, they don’t seem upset that I’ve ruined their plan to fix this problem with Essex. Even Norwood, who has become the biggest advocate for it since he fell in love himself, just has his hands in his pockets. He has a costume of some kind of fertility god.
“We’re not married. Yet,” I say.
“Ahhh, I see.” Westminster nods. “Given they shot you during negotiations, perhaps it’s not a bad idea to avoid marrying someone who might want to kill you.”
“It’s not so bad. Worked out well for me,” interjects Edmonton.
“Alright, if marriage is off the table, we’ll have to rethink. Maybe we let them implode on their own, or negotiate once they figure out who’s in charge,” Mayfair says, as though we’re talking about buying a suit.
“Are we totally sure we can’t simply take it over?” Norwood says. “It seems the quicker way now that Woodford took out Loughton senior.”
“Is that what I was doing?” I say dryly. “It felt like being shot at.”
Edmonton laughs.
Just then, a tiny girl in a pale-pink feather-covered dress and a sparkly tiara pushes through the crowd at a run. “Daddy, Daddy! There’s a fairy lady doing real magic!”
Lambeth’s expression lights up, and he leans down to sweep his daughter into his arms, and looks into her face, asking her seriously, “Is there? What magic did she do?”
“She made a dove appear, just like that.” The little girl tries to snap her fingers, but it’s a bit soft and she scowls at the offending digits before trying again.
“That does sound like real magic.” Lambeth smiles indulgently.
“It is! Come and see!”
Something spasms in my chest, and I think it might be jealousy. I’d like a daughter who ran to me and dragged me away to watch a children’s magic show. Almost as much as I’d like Callie to be mine forever.
Lambeth walks off with his daughter, and Edmonton looks between the men remaining. “Shall we join them?”
Westminster nods. “My kids will be watching the magic, too. Let’s finish here for now.”
And that’s the end of business talk, because apparently fae magic is more important than anything the Essex Cartel might do.