6. Avery
AVERY
My heart is still thudding and my ears are ringing as we’re guided upstairs to a dining room. It’s gorgeously set, but formal, with white tablecloths and rows of silverware.
Kill is utterly relaxed as he takes a seat at the circular table set out for a dozen people.
Violet—a woman with honey-coloured hair and a superior air—immediately pounces on the chair next to him, and I realise in horror this might need more skills I don’t have.
Not just firing a gun, I have to try to figure out what fork I should use—each place has about five lined up—I also need to fight for my place so I can do the job I’m being paid for.
The other women catch on just as I do, though, and presumably have smarter brains than me after that shooting range thing, as they push past me ruthlessly, taking the other seats with coos and smiles at how kind Killian is for providing dinner.
Even gorgeous, blonde Katy manages to get a better place than me.
The dynamic has already shifted amongst the girls.
When I first joined them last week, I wasn’t a threat.
I was too irrelevant to be anything other than amusing, arriving with no fancy clothes or people with me, just Brandon, who turned out to be Kill’s second-in-command.
Katy and Jemma took me under their wings, and did my makeup and loaned me a dress.
But after that kiss, they’re significantly less friendly.
I’m competition.
There are no phones allowed, Kill’s men collected them all up beforehand, as he did when we had the first welcome meeting, and I itch a bit, wishing I could check social media. Maybe watch a video on surviving intense work dinners.
If that’s what this is?
I end up on the opposite side of the circular table. Miles away from Kill, but straight in his line of sight.
There’s wine offered, but I need to keep my head, so I just accept sparkling water. Some of the other girls do the same, but a few have champagne. Kill has a glass of red wine, and Violet has one too. That’s a connection, and she starts to chatter using French words that sound sophisticated.
Small slices of crusty white bread are brought out for us by waitstaff in white shirts and crisp, square white aprons at their waists. They’re so together it must be choreographed, and I’m totally in awe. I accept both, and there’s a slab of butter with flakes of salt on top.
The bread has a slight tang that I can’t identify. The butter is smooth, perfect. I didn’t know there were expensive butters, but this tastes amazing. From cows that ate really green grass or something.
“I love soda bread!” says Violet, tucking in. She’s one of the daughters of a smaller London mafia.
“Soda bread?” I ask, unable to help myself. It just looks like bread to me.
“It’s made with baking soda rather than yeast to make it rise,” Violet says patronisingly.
Where there had been some camaraderie between us when we’d been working as a team to shoot well enough to win, it’s clearly every woman for herself.
Then, with the same elegance, green soup in perfect white porcelain bowls is placed before everyone, almost simultaneously.
The soup is the dark-green of Kill’s eyes.
I don’t know how to deal with this, but thankfully I do know what a soup spoon looks like—more round than a normal spoon—even though we’ve never had something like that at home.
But equally, at home we don’t have heavy, pure-white cloth napkins and a tablecloth that reaches to the floor.
But as conversation strikes up, a couple of girls are discreetly trying to spit out the small mouthfuls of soup they’ve taken.
I’m not the kind of person who’s tried lots of special foods, but I’m game, so I scoop a bit of soup by dipping the spoon into the deep-green soup. It’s immediately subsumed, the soup totally opaque although it’s thin, like a broth.
I bring it to my mouth, and a drip of soup splashes from the spoon and onto the pristine white tablecloth. I freeze, the cringe going to my bones, as I feel how out of my depth I am with mere soup. Never mind everything else.
The girl beside me glances across and titters, her gaze dropping to the spot.
My face heating, I shove the spoon into my mouth. Flavour explodes. It’s like spinach, but with sort of grassy undertones, and a herbal scent. It’s savoury, and there’s a depth of taste that lingers on my tongue, almost tingling.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tried.
It has a hint of the wild. Like a summer meadow. My eyes go wide, and I meet Kill’s gaze. He looks me up and down speculatively, and the warmth increases. All over.
It’s only then I notice that the other women are delicately tipping their spoons away from them and into the soup, their wrists graceful and only a tiny bit of soup on the spoon.
Ah. Right.
This is one of those things I didn’t have a clue about.
He takes a spoonful himself. But what’s interesting is that he eats without the grace of the women I’m competing against. He’s utilitarian, and I get the vibe he’d drink it straight from the bowl in gulps if he could.
“What do you think of the nettle soup?” Kill asks mildly.
The heat drains from me. Nettle?
“What?” I stutter. “Is that safe?” I glance down at the deep-green soup, which has taken a more sinister tone.
“It’s a traditional Irish dish,” says Violet smugly. “Didn’t you know?”
I shake my head. I’m an idiot. I should have done more research on Irish stuff. I was busy with learning about the other girls and reading up on guns, the Archway mafia, and Irish alcohol. Food didn’t occur to me.
“It’s alright. I’m not trying to poison you.” Kill smiles, and his amusement shines through. “Do you like it?”
I blink. “Yes. It’s good. Weird.”
Kill laughs, and it’s a rich, throaty sound that shoots sparks down to the place where my legs meet.
Next is a little sorbet, then a shallow bowl of stew. It’s a dark-brown, with pale-yellow chunks that I think must be potato, and vegetables. Onion, carrots.
This time I know to tip it away from me, and it’s not so bad. I’m getting the hang of this nonsense. The stew is more familiar, but’s got the same not quite usual taste. It’s deeper. Richer. Delicious. I eat every bit.
“We thought you’d enjoy some proper Irish fare.” After that’s cleared away, Kill glances from side to side before his gaze settles on me.
“What about some potatoes?” asks Violet, and laughs.
“As you wish.” Kill’s eyes gleam, and the dozen waitstaff appear with huge white plates. On each one are six little pale yellow-white piles, and it takes me a moment to realise what they are. The smell though, is divine. Butter, carbohydrates, and herbs.
It’s potatoes in a dozen different forms. What I think must be mashed potato, creamy and smooth.
A tiny stack of French fries. Baked potato, but only a mouthful, with what looks like beans and cheese on top, sprinkled with black pepper.
A single small potato covered with butter and specks of greenery.
There are others, some fried, some with cheese.
My mouth waters.
“These look really high calorie,” says Katy uncertainly.
Kill raises one eyebrow. “Is there a problem with the food I’m providing for you?” His voice is low and dangerous.
“Just where’s the rest of it,” Violet says with a false laugh. “No meat? I do love meat.”
There’s a hint of suggestiveness in her comment, and I shift uncomfortably.
“We’ll get to that.” Kill’s expression is grim though, not the sexy or light-hearted response she might have wanted.
I’m unfathomably reassured. I don’t like it when the other women flirt with Kill.
I particularly don’t want him to flirt back.
I refuse to examine that feeling, and instead, when Kill picks up his fork and scoops the whole of a bite of potato in one, I go to do the same.
Unfortunately, I get snagged on watching him eat.
It’s an absurd thing to get fascinated by, but he’s oddly beautiful as he eats.
His mouth, obviously. His lips are plush.
And the black stubble on his cheeks invites my touch in the way that a big, scary wild cat does.
He doesn’t look soft, but scratchy and textured.
Compelling. And then there’s his neck, revealed by his open shirt collar.
His throat… His Adam’s apple shouldn’t be sexy.
Neither should the black tattoo lines that rise from his collar.
I want to explore the texture of him with my fingers and… Yeah. My lips.
He’s the taste I’d like to have on my tongue, not anything of the expensive dinner we’re being fed.
“See something you’d like to eat?”
My heart skips as my chin jerks up to Kill’s eyeline. I let out a strangled sound.
Caught.
His eyes sparkle.
“Absolutely! I love potato cakes!” One of the other girls takes a gleeful mouthful.
“Yeah.” I don’t know what those are, but hey, it’s potato. It’s going to be delicious.
I’m right. They’re all the carbohydrate and fat and salty goodness.
I consume every bite with gusto and allow the conversation to continue around me. And if I catch Kill looking at my mouth and my cheeks heat? Well. I did the same to him.
There’s a meat course, and more tiny courses that are perfect mouthfuls, then the sweet course is even better.
There’s raspberry sauce in a pretty swirl over the top, and a fancy mint leaf and icing sugar scattered over the surface.
Kill calls it carrageen pudding, and says it’s made with seaweed, which is enough to put off some of the others.
But it tastes like vanilla custard, or that wobbly dessert.
It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever eaten, and I take my time with it, savouring every bite. Until dinner is cleared away, and my stomach is heavy as I realise what is about to happen when Sue claps her hands.
The other women have been called into the room, and tension cuts in.
“Thank you for a lovely dinner, Killian. Now, who are you going to give roses to?” Sue asks meaningfully.
Kill accepts the roses with good grace. The girls who didn’t have dinner with Kill—I hope they got fed—are gathered in an awkward group in the corner.
Kill holds the bunch of roses up, and his eyes flick over them. “Hmm.”
He stands and prowls around the table.
My stomach turns over as he leans over Violet’s shoulder and gives her the first rose, and a tight-lipped smile.
Then he meets his mother’s gaze over Violet’s head as he straightens to his full—substantial—height and goes to the group of women waiting to the side, and gives Jemma a rose.
Ah. Right. I knew that.
The third goes to Katy.
Then a fourth is given to another girl. He gives out roses, one by one, and the girls squeal and thank him. One even throws her arms around him, gushing that she can’t wait to get to know him better.
I’m not nervous initially. But each rose allocated to another woman makes the food sit heavier in my stomach.
He gave me the first rose that first night, and kissed me, but maybe he’s tired of me.
Because if he saw me being ignorant, bad at using a gun, and not good at fancy food, that could have turned him off so much, he doesn’t think he can employ me anymore.
I’m not good enough to even fake it with.
This isn’t a big deal, I try to tell myself. Just a job.
It’s a lie.
I’m twitching. Shaking.
“One more rose,” his mother’s voice calls out.
I gulp.
I don’t like this.
I’m so deadened. I didn’t think this was important, but now I’m about to lose Kill, it’s so critical.
Kill stalks around the table. There are half a dozen girls without roses, mostly standing.
I hold my breath as Kill approaches.
“Avery,” he purrs. And it’s only then that I realise that he hasn’t said the name of any of the other girls.
I’m trembling as I take the rose. My fingers brush his, and my pulse spikes.
“Thank you.” It’s a sigh, and he gives me a ghost of a smile.
The relief. I knew. Obviously, I knew he would give me a rose. But as he touches his fingers to my chin and tilts my face up to look into his, my heart flutters.
Then he withdraws seamlessly. “Until next time, ladies.”
How am I going to cope?