3. Killian
KILLIAN
“Killian.” My mam practically drags me through the doorway, pouncing on me like a skilled American lioness picking up her unruly cub.
The whole of London quakes at my name. I have blood on my hands, and black in my soul. And my feckin’ mother is arranging my marriage because I was stupid enough to think that in twenty years I’d sort my own romantic life.
Maybe you didn’t because you hadn’t met Avery, whispers a little voice at the back of my mind. I push it away. That can’t be it. I’m the Devil of Archway. I wasn’t waiting. Bloody silly thought.
But the folded copy of Avery’s CV in my inner chest pocket feels like fate.
So as my mam ushers me to an outlandishly decorated seating area that is basically like a throne, I accept it. I even sit in the gold fecking chair, as obedient a son as she could hope for.
“The girls will enter one at a time,” Mam says, as though she hasn’t explained at least four times already, but likely has correctly assumed I’ve forgotten.
I funded it, I’ve committed to marry one of these women, it’s a bridge too far to expect me to keep up with my conniving mother’s activities as well.
And keeping my father under control is a job in itself.
I should give in and allocate one of my men to just watching him. It might be necessary now.
“I’ll ask my questions,” she continues. “Which will give you a sense of their personalities.”
“And then they get married,” my dad grumbles, rolling his eyes.
“Cocktail party first,” my mother interjects, as though that’s the key barrier between meeting and matrimony. “At the end of the night, you’ll choose as many of the women as you like to go through to the next rounds of the competition. A week between each date.”
I inwardly groan. This is going to be hell on a stick. Thank god I have Avery. My blood stirs at the memory of the girl I met and who has intrigued me like no one else.
She was natural. Unafraid. Pretty and genuine and trying to make her way in the world. A better man than me would have sent her to HR and instructed them to find her an appropriate role.
But I’m not. I’m a manipulative bastard, and I can use her to make this bearable.
And afterwards…
My mind springs to a scene that only an hour ago was unthinkable or nauseating. Me and her. Avery by my side as my queen. Kids. Me holding a child with her hair and eyes, and us teaching our next generation about Archway, and the business.
I understood the reason for building a legacy, and I suppose that was partly why I agreed to my mother’s scheme.
But I didn’t understand that it might feel important if it were with a person I cared for.
That it could be more than a duty. A pleasure.
A new stage, more enjoyable and exciting than what I’ve done so far.
“Get on with it,” I growl, and wave a hand.
A woman walks in, wearing a dress, and introduces herself.
She smiles and simpers. She talks, I don’t listen.
And the next is the same. They’re pretty, beautiful even.
They’re clearly trying to be original, to make themselves stand out.
But they’re not singing off-key and dancing awkwardly, so it all comes across as false.
I’m as cold as my reputation.
“I feel something special when I look at Killian,” one says to my mother, smiling sweetly, and then turns to me. “I think I could easily fall in love with you.”
Sure. I should have known this would basically be me beating off women with a stick.
Not that stick, either. I don’t sleep around.
I never have. Not because of some idiotic sense of purity, or lack of opportunity.
The security was part of it. I didn’t want to make myself vulnerable to someone who got close, physically or mentally.
I’ve had the Archway mafia to think about, from learning the business in my teens and twenties to taking it over and building it further.
After my curiosity was satisfied, it rarely felt worthwhile compared to the tepid reward of a body to use for my lust.
“I think I can be the ideal wife. I’ve got experience in the kitchen, I can ease his troubles at the end of the day in the lounge, and I’m very willing to learn in the bedroom.” She manages a blush. “I’ll love him for my entire life, in any way he wants.”
I can see, logically, that this should be appealing. A person who’s here to serve me. But I can’t find any enthusiasm for it at all. It’s merely sad that this girl is doing this for… What? Wealth? Power?
The next girl is worse.
“I can hit a target at five hundred feet with a gun, and I’ll hit any target he wants.” She’s posh, and laughs at her own joke. A bit like a horse.
I’m about ready to shoot myself.
“I’ll be a partner in his mafia business, bringing expertise and connections,” another says, and I respect that she isn’t pretending that love has anything to do with this.
“I’m a good listener,” the next girl says earnestly. “And I love Killian for his sense of justice and the way he’s improved the Archway mafia.”
Love? As though she could be in love with me after one look? Absurd. And yet, even as I dismiss the girl for naivety, Avery’s face flashes into my mind. Her dancing. It’s not possible to instantly fall in love, though.
“I bring an alliance with my father’s mafia, and I’ll be a good and dutiful wife,” says a blonde.
My mother likes that one, and I see why I should too. But I don’t. I nod blandly. A dutiful wife is what I thought I wanted, but apparently things change.
I have an unfamiliar feeling as I’m waiting for Avery to emerge from the doorway all the women are coming from. It takes me a moment to identify it, given it’s not something I’ve felt for years.
I’m worried.
I’m invested in this woman, and I don’t like that she wasn’t at the front of the queue. What if she changed her mind, and decided job hunting was better than being involved with this farce?
“I have a seven-figure trust fund, and a special talent I know you’ll appreciate!” The next candidate smiles at me with what I suppose is an implication that should make my cock twitch with interest.
My cock is not bothered.
A few more are entirely forgettable. They’re all dressed in slinky, revealing dresses that leave nothing to either the wallet or the imagination.
A couple are more modestly attired, but they’re here for a cocktail party and an unsubtle opportunity to show off all the skin I’d get to touch if I chose them.
The girls—and mostly they are girls, far too young for me—keep arriving in an endlessly tedious wave that has something unique with every different pitch, and yet somehow all manage to sound identical.
I’m not tempted. I don’t want to marry any of them. There’s no spark.
I’m only waiting for the girl who unexpectedly set my interest on fire. Smouldering at the very least.
Avery.
And I’ve seen what feels like at least a hundred women before she appears.
For a second, I don’t recognise her. She’s replaced the sensible workwear with a dress that’s far simpler than any of the women preceding her.
It’s a plain green, and where every woman so far has been shiny, her dress is matte.
Maybe even cotton? It suits her perfectly, though, setting off her shiny brown hair.
She walks in without any of the swagger and confidence the other women have.
My mother looks Avery up and down with a combination of interest and hostility. Although my protective instincts yell at me to take over, I sit back. I think Avery can deal with my mother.
“What’s your name?” she demands.
Avery’s chin comes up. She’s obviously terrified—who wouldn’t be in the circumstances?—but she holds it together. “Avery Morgan.”
“I don’t recognise you. You’re not part of the competition. What are you doing here?”
“To marry Kill,” she replies simply.
Hearing my nickname in her voice sends a pleasant shiver down my spine, like recognition. Not Killian, or Mr Farrell, or Archway. Not even the Devil of Archway. But Kill. It might be a grim sort of nickname, but it’s mine, and aside from my men, most people are too scared to say it.
Not Avery though.
My mam puckers her lips like a labrador’s arse. “I don’t think you’re—”
“She can stay,” I cut her off.
She turns to glare at me, and I quirk an eyebrow up.
Her voice goes to ice. “You have all these beautiful, hand-selected women, with perfect pedigrees—”
“I’m not a dog,” I reply smoothly.
“How do we know she’s not from the Essex Cartel?
” My mother clearly doesn’t believe that, because if she did, she knows I would have already disposed of Avery.
My mother might not acknowledge my nicknames—either Kill or the Devil of Archway—but she’s seen me murder too many men in order to protect our mafia to be under any illusions.
“She could be from Camden,” my father growls. “Sent to murder you in a moment of vulnerability.”
“Exactly.” Mam nods, even though she’s well aware Camden haven’t been a threat for years.
I slide my gaze back to Avery. She’s small, but her hands are clasped, maybe to prevent herself from trembling? And her head is held high.
I smirk. “All adds to the fun, doesn’t it? We’re not scared of the Essex Cartel. Or Camden.”
“Fine, get your throat slit, Killian.” My mother glowers at me, disliking that I’ve outmanoeuvred her in her own game.
She feels this is hers, since I’ve shown precisely zero interest in marrying for the last twenty years, or even the last twelve months she’s been planning this nonsense.
“Why do you want to marry my son?” This is a return to her script.
Avery swallows. She’s heard all the usual reasons, no doubt, as the other girls have cooed about my being handsome, the honour of marrying into the Farrell family, that they genuinely feel a connection after less than thirty seconds in my presence, or they’ve seen me around and think they could fall in love with me so easily.
I’m eager to discover what my little dancer comes up with.