FORTY-TWO
Gigi
I have a pep in my step as I walk through the halls of the former boarding school, the Circle headquarters, my nineteenth-century home. Besides the tinge of soreness on my cheeks from the brawl with Poppy, I feel faultless. No. Fucking elated .
Alive.
Thriving.
I’m. A. Fucking. Criminal.
I’m on a high this morning, having thoroughly impressed the Boss and continued to share intel about upcoming heists. I never thought I needed a man’s approval – and I don’t, really – but I’m revelling in the pride the Boss radiates with each of my suggestions. And Richard’s not the only person to have noticed – I’ve witnessed plenty of other watchful eyes on me.
I’ve even heard someone say Jack had nothing on me. And every shit conversation I’ve ever had with my parents practically disintegrates at that very thought.
At the memory I skip a little faster, a bounce in my step as I head towards the lunch hall. On my way past the living space, my feet grind to a halt as I hear someone calling my name.
“Thomas,” a guard barks. “Richard’s asking for you. ”
“What? Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“Can’t I get some lunch first?”
“He said it’s important.”
I nod and retrace my steps, heading towards his office at the other end of the property. While I’d normally be elated at him asking for me personally, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s about the occurrence at the Italian mansion. It’s about time we spoke it through.
Or perhaps he’s looking to praise me for more of my work, possibly to discuss an upcoming heist.
I knock on his door, and his voice echoes through the wood.
“Come in.”
I step inside to find the Boss lounging casually in his desk chair. His posture is relaxed, calm. And I’m suddenly wondering if I got this meeting completely wrong as he lights a cigar, beckoning me to sit.
“Someone said you wanted to see me,” I say.
He puffs smoke from his lips. “Indeed. I’ve been wanting to speak with you …”
A pause stretches between us.
“Okay …”
“I want you to be one of the performers at Pixies.”
Whoa.
That was not what I was expecting him to say.
When I signed up for this life, putting my life on the line by hanging on a tightrope to grab some plastic tiara, I definitely didn’t expect to be selling the image of my body. I thought I’d be thrifting jewellery stores, stealing artwork.
“As you’ve seen, the women are our main source of attraction at the club, but we’re looking to elevate our performance … a finale to entice people to return.” He takes another puff of his cigar, dragging the conversation out even further. My body is about itching when he finally adds, “My team and I believe a couples’ performance would suffice as the extra entertainment.”
“Don’t you have other candidates? People are throwing themselves at the front doors every night.”
“Are you saying you’re not fit for the job? I can always find someone else.”
Pride keeps me from arguing. I sigh, exasperated, and bow my head. “No, Boss. I can do it.”
“I thought so … And I’ve chosen the perfect person to accompany you.”
As if on cue there’s a knock on the door, and the Boss’s grin extends before he calls them in. I gnaw on my bottom lip and briefly close my eyes, refusing to entertain the idea I’ll be getting intimate with someone on public display. In front of a paying audience.
The door creaks open, and I wait until I feel a presence beside me, someone taking up the space in the empty chair. When I creep my eyes open, Harry’s adjusting the front of his shirt, and as he turns to me he looks equally confused. His face is still, emotionless, until something akin to panic flashes across his eyes.
If I’m being honest, I’ve been avoiding him since the incident between us on the plane. While I know the idea of us fraternising is wrong, my body can’t seem to control itself around him. And this new concept of us working together may be the ultimate temptation.
The Boss knows relationships are forbidden – it’s his own rule – yet he’s taunting us. Daring us to take the bait. Call it “the Strictly curse”, but working so close together will be a travesty. Our relationship will be analysed; under scrutiny.
Richard is the vulture, and Harry and I are the deadly meal.
“No need for introductions, you two,” the Boss says. “Say hello to your new dance partner.”
Harry is still staring at me, his eyes transfixed as if my presence has stilled him to stone. Finally, he shakes his head. “I don’t dance.”
Deep down we both know the Boss is asking for far worse. If the girls’ “dances” are anything to go by, the interaction between us will be an intimate affair of stolen touches, and a public display for crude wandering eyes.
“I can always find someone else to fill your spot and dance with Gigi if there’s a problem between the two of you.”
I blurt out, trying to save us. “What about the heists? And the planning—?”
“Are you saying you don’t have the efficiency to fit this into your schedule? Gigi, if you’re not capable …”
“I’m capable!”
“I thought so.” The Boss smiles, turning to Harry. “Any objections?”
We both shake our heads.
“Very well.” Richard stands, checking his Omega . “I’ll have your instructor relay the routine to you both. You’re both expected to attend training for the next few weeks. Your stage debut will be when they declare you're ready.” He approaches the door to leave.
Before he does, I ask, “Sorry, Boss … but who’s our instructor?”
His grin turns devilish. “Poppy.”
Richard closes the door before I have a chance to object, sucking the air out of me. I slump back in my chair, trying to comprehend having to resist Harry’s touch while being surrounded by his intoxicating presence every day – in the company of someone as scheming as Poppy, no less.
“I didn’t take you as the dancing type,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m not,” Harry says, his voice cold and unforgiving. Yet it softens as he turns to me and admits, “I’d die before I let another man put his hands on you … Richard knows the rules, but he’s not fucking stupid, Gigi. He knows I wouldn’t let anyone else take the job.”
Normally, Harry would be thriving in this kind of situation, having me at his mercy so he can touch me without the fear we may be executed for the crime. Yet he seems angry, cold, off-kilter at the prospect.
I say, “It might not be that bad.”
“Thomas, straighten your back. Posture like the Hunchback of Notre Dame won’t sell tickets.”
I’m going to kill this woman.
Thank God I’m involved in a society where murder is acceptable, because Penelope fucking Green is top of my hit list. My fists clench hard at my sides at the mere thought of wringing my hands around her neck. And there’s nothing graceful about it. I’m meant to be pressed into Harry’s body, leaving no fraction of space between us, but I’m lacking effort.
I know more than anyone how good my body fits against his – we’re like two magnets aching to become one. But if I let my body melt into his touch, it’ll be difficult to ever resist him again. Harry knows it too. I can tell by the way his fingers flex against my hip, refusing to hold as tightly as he should.
This is different from our stolen touches behind closed doors. This is having the forbidden fruit in your hand but being unable to taste it.
What happened to us?
The bruises on Poppy’s face have dulled to a light yellow, and she’s practically back to normal, save for a slightly bloodshot eye. Yet she seemingly wants to be punched again, as she says, “You have to be more like this …” She pushes me out of the way and replaces my spot in front of Harry. Bowing her body into him, her chest flush against his, their hips touch. My teeth clench at the interaction. Despite thinking my anger is subtle, Harry shoots me a weighted stare, warning me to cut it out .
“See?” Poppy cranes her head over her shoulder, smirking.
Her cleavage is directly underneath Harry’s chin, but he refuses to entertain the idea. His expression is stern as he stares at her face with boredom, barely blinking. She’s taunting me, and I refuse to take the bait … until she starts to run her hand down the front of his chest, heading directly towards—
“FINE!” I shout.
She steps backwards, a menacing grin touching her lips when I take the spot where her body was. Poppy walks over to the stereo, barking for Harry to grip my waist. A flicker of a smirk ghosts his lips as I step closer. He grips my hipbone, pulling me flush against him, and his amusement blossoms into a feline smile. Yet when Poppy calls action, his walls crumble and something shifts, projecting his inner torment.
I feel the weight of Harry’s struggle as his hand slips to the base of my spine, carefully encouraging me to arch my back. I do so cautiously, clutching onto his hand. He pulls me back against his chest, and as if by magic I feel myself getting lost in the feel of him, utterly mesmerised. I naturally step closer, finding his gaze through the thick tension.
His touch on my skin is proving difficult for him, so I can’t begin to imagine his issue with having to strip me in front of a crowd. Poppy has choreographed our entire performance, which she’s certain will be a showstopper … but it involves me stripping down to my underwear, and Harry losing his shirt. Something we’ve put off discussing.
The pain is obvious through the merciless lines on his face, his expression pinched as he brings the back of his hand to my cheek, stroking my skin. Now’s the moment he should spin me around and run his hands over my chest, but he pauses for so long I’m afraid he’s disconnected. His gaze is strained, and he squeezes his eyes shut before cursing.
“This is going to be a lot harder than I thought,” Poppy says in a huff. “You guys have, like, no chemistry. ”
At the reminder she’s here I snap out of my trance. Harry and I break apart like we’ve been sparked with a hot poker.
“How long do we have to train for?” I ask.
“Until you two can get a bit of connection at least. Besides …” She turns off the speaker. “Everyone seems pretty occupied with the Gold House heist coming up. While there are people on the planning team, we might be called to help. That means we need every spare moment to practice.”
The trade of documents could happen any day. Whether this week or next month, it’ll be soon. And we need to be prepared for it.
“What’s the latest?” Harry asks.
“We’re waiting on updates, but it’s looking like we’ll hit before opening. And when the cleaning crew have gained entry,” Poppy says.
From the conversations I’ve overheard, Gold House is under lock and key, making it practically impossible to gain entry. Kind of like Harrods . Unless you’ve sold your identity to their security team, no one is getting in or out of there. The team is planning to strike when the first set of staff enters for the day, but this would leave them extremely limited for time.
“What about the tunnels?” I suggest.
Harry and Poppy’s turn to each other, exchanging glances before they whip their heads towards me as if I’ve just spoken a foreign language.
Harry frowns and asks, “What are you talking about?”
“I used to work in a department store.” I shrug. “They have underground tunnels for when celebrities or royalty come to visit. Unless you’re an employee or Beyoncé, you wouldn’t know about them.”
Harry shakes his head. “We’ve checked the blueprints. They don’t have such a thing.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” I drawl. “How can you call yourselves criminals if you don’t know the first thing about breaking into high-security places? ”
Struck speechless, Harry clears his throat, pointing to Poppy. “Go tell Richard. Get some of the guys to look into it.”
Poppy stills, her body in shock.
“GO!”
Finally, she huffs, rolling her eyes as she storms out of the room.
“Why did you never say anything?” Harry asks when the door closes.
“I hadn’t thought about it until now. Besides, I try not to remember much of my life before this.”
There are still aspects that creep to the forefront of my brain, of course – Mia being the most important. I can’t think about her too deeply without becoming upset. She used to contact me every day, then the messages became limited to once a week, and recently … nothing. From what I know, she and Andy are still an item. But I don’t ever ask him, the guilt too much to bear.
Harry scoffs, and the cheeky, flirtatious man who was threatening me not to wear white before my wedding disappears, replaced by the short, abrupt version who hates my new lifestyle.
“What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” he throws back. “Who said there was a problem?”
“From the pissed-off look on your pretty face, I’d say you’ve got a problem.”
“You think I’m pretty?” With a new contentment on his face he steps closer, the flirtatious side breaking through his shields. “Now that changes things.”
I allow myself a moment to memorise the feeling of him so close before pulling away and shaking my head. “I never said that.”
He chuckles. “I’m pretty sure you did, princess.”
“You need to stop with all the flirting. It’s going to make things incredibly difficult if we’re meant to work together intimately and then go back to this reality where fraternisation could kill us.”
The ominous look returns to his face.
“What is it that’s bothering you?” I ask, my voice softer. “Please tell me. ”
He turns his head away, and I catch his chin, turning him back to me. Harry grabs my hand, squeezing, his voice distant.
“You’re fucking torturing me.”
“Why?”
Suffocated, he says, “I burnt you. I fucking branded you—”
“That was not your fault.”
“Was it not?” He squeezes my hand tighter, emphasising his pain. “Your blood is on my hands—”
“Harry—”
“You wanted the truth, right? Here’s the truth …” His hand moves to my wrist, bringing my palm closer to his face and encouraging me to spread my fingers over his cheek. I do, allowing us this moment as he says, “I can’t fucking stand the idea of people seeing you on that stage. I want to adore you, not worship you in private, yet the only time you’ll let me is when you’re forced against your will, on public display.” He steps even closer. “You told me to be truthful, yet you also told me not to kill the people who wrong you. Tell me, Gigi, which do you want? Because I’m tired of choosing for you.”
I gulp, my throat tight with emotion. “The truth.”
He brings his face closer to mine. “I feel fucking murderous at the idea. Any man who watches you on that stage is disrespecting you, and you’re mine . My woman. My responsibility. Becoming a serial killer was never on my agenda, but I’m well on my way to making Pixies a slaughterhouse if you set foot on that stage.”
The words hit me like a stab to the chest. As I stare down at my hand, I realise it’s cupping Harry’s throat and applying pressure as if demonstrating how lost I am for words. How tormented he makes me. The idea of him murdering people should be obscene, but it makes my heart triple in speed.
“What will make you feel better?” I ask, my voice betraying me.
He tilts his head. “Will you let me slaughter the men who lay their eyes on you?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not fucking happy.”
I scoff and retract my hand from his throat, but he catches my wrist. He puts it on his chest, right over his heart, which is thumping as ferociously as mine.
“Then what do you want?” I ask. “What will give you peace?”
He pauses for a beat.
“You, baby. I want all of you.”