14. Jamison
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JAMISON
The party took place on the upper deck of the Tideglass Pavilion, a private harbour club built into the eastern cliffs of Harlan.
It was the kind of venue people called relaxed because nobody wore a tie. That was the only relaxed thing about it.
The pavilion stretched over the water in tiers. White linen curtains moved in the summer breeze. Lanterns glowed beneath the deck rails. Low music drifted out from hidden speakers while yachts sat anchored across the harbour.
Men stood in loose circles with sleeves rolled to their elbows and expensive drinks, pretending they had come for the sunset. Every conversation had money under it. Ports. Contracts. Land. Casino licenses. Private routes. Bloodline influence disguised as family updates.
Women wore silk and diamonds that looked effortless because someone else had spent hours making them look that way.
Servers moved between groups carrying champagne, whiskey, and small plates nobody actually ate.
I stood near the outer rail with Marcel and two men from the Corrigan family, listening to a conversation about harbour access.
Or pretending to.
“I can guarantee twelve percent if the eastern route stays under Harlan governance,” Corrigan said.
“No,” I answered.
“No to twelve?”
“No to the conversation.”
Marcel looked at me.
Corrigan hesitated. “Perhaps we could revisit it after dinner.”
“Perhaps you could stop dressing an insult in percentages and expecting me to be grateful.”
His mouth tightened.
Good.
I was not in the mood to be charming.
Marcel stepped in before Corrigan embarrassed himself further. “Send the revised access proposal to my office Monday morning. We’ll review the full route terms.”
Corrigan nodded too quickly. He left with his brother.
Marcel turned to me slowly.
“You’re delightful tonight.”
“I came.”
“That is the lowest possible standard.”
“And yet I met it.”
“You’re drinking too much,” Marcel said. He gave me that brother look again. The one that made me want to throw him off the upper deck and then arrange for a doctor before he hit the rocks.
My glass was empty.
A server appeared before I had to ask.
Good service.
I took another whiskey from the tray and looked back toward the entrance because my attention had gone there without permission again.
The car door opened below.
Emmie stepped out first. Dark green silk. Gold earrings. Marcel’s wife looked expensive in a way Harlan women tried to imitate and never quite managed. She turned back toward the car and held out her hand.
Sienna stepped down.
Fuck.
The thought hit before I could stop it.
I had known she was beautiful. Some men needed a woman half-naked to realize it. I wasn’t stupid. Sienna had always been beautiful. Even at eighteen, when she stood beside me in soft dresses and called me Jamjam to make me less of a nightmare.
But this was different.
She was twenty now.
And she looked it.
The dress clung to her body with enough precision to make half the deck forget what conversation they were in. It fitted through her waist and hips, smooth as poured champagne, then slipped down her legs with a slit high enough to show flashes of thigh when she moved.
Her black hair was loose, over one shoulder.
Dark against all that gold. The contrast was a fucking problem.
The whole deck noticed.
Men looked.
Women noticed men looking.
Sienna didn’t seem to understand she had changed the room by arriving in it. She smiled at something Emmie.
I took a drink.
Harrison drifted up beside me, because apparently the night had decided I deserved punishment in layers.
I didn’t look at him. “Walk away.”
“Can’t. I’m invested now.” He smiled.
Of all my brothers, Harrison had the most fragile survival instinct. He had been born with the ability to find a bruise and press on it until someone broke his nose. Usually me.
“Say one more thing.”
“One more thing.”
I stared.
He laughed under his breath. “She’s gorgeous, Jamie.”
I looked back at Sienna.
She was coming up the steps with Emmie and one hand lightly on the rail, careful in those deadly gold heels. The wind moved through her black hair, lifting pieces around her face.
Gorgeous was too small.
That was the problem.
A word like that belonged to girls in society pages and women men forgot after a weekend.
Sienna was not that.
My fingers were locked around the glass. The crystal had not cracked.
Yet.
I released some pressure and took another drink. Sienna reached the deck. Emmie saw me first. Her face shifted, gentle warning in her eyes.
I ignored it.
Sienna looked over a second later. She gave me a small nod.
“Jamison.”
Not Jamjam. Still. It should not have hit every time.
“Sienna.”
Her eyes dropped to my glass. Then back to my face. She knew I had been drinking.
Emmie touched her arm. “Come with me. I want you to see the terrace flowers.”
Sienna smiled. “Okay.”
“Don’t ruin her night.” Marcel said once they were out of earshot.
I looked at him. “You’re making assumptions.”
“I’m using history.”
I did not answer.
Sienna stood near the lower rail with Emmie, black hair falling over one shoulder, gold dress fitted enough to be a public threat. A man from Corrigan looked at her too long, caught my stare, and abruptly found the harbour fascinating.
Smart.
Then Weston arrived.
The night went to shit.
He came in through the side entrance with St. Cross polish all over him. Smile easy enough to make stupid people feel safe.
I knew my blood.
All Crows had regions.
Villain. Harlan. St. Cross. Harrington. Malice. Torrance.
Different names. Different habits. Different rules for how to make people kneel.
The blood didn’t change.
Weston looked at Sienna the way Crow men looked at something they were considering taking. He was subtler than I was.
His gaze moved down her dress, not crude enough for anyone polite to call out, but I saw it. Every man with Crow blood would have seen it.
He saw waist. Thigh. Bare shoulder. Soft mouth. Black hair against gold silk.
He saw opportunity.
My mood turned violent.
“Don’t,” Harrison said beside me.
I did not look at him. “Don’t what?”
“Whatever you are about to do.”
Weston crossed toward Sienna and Emmie. Slow. A practiced predator at a summer party.
He greeted Emmie first. Smart. He spoke to Marcel from across the space with a polite nod, then turned to Sienna with that polished St. Cross smile.
“Sienna Bellemere.”
Her smile appeared automatically. My hand tightened again.
“Weston,” she said.
His eyes dropped to her dress for half a second.
“You look stunning.”
Her cheeks flushed. She gave a small laugh. “Thank you.”
“I wondered if Harlan had hidden you from the harbour on purpose.”
That was it.
I drank.
Too much at once. The whiskey burned hard down my throat.
“I don’t come here often.” Sienna tucked a piece of black hair behind her ear.
“Then Harlan has been careless.”
Emmie’s expression chilled.
Weston didn’t care. He leaned one hand on the rail near Sienna, leaving space, making the whole posture seem harmless.
Harmless.
Fucking liar.
She did not know the Bellemeres might be preparing Celeste to replace her at my side, or that Damius had opened doors for other Crow men to look at her the way Weston was looking now.
She had no idea she was standing in the middle of a negotiation.
Someone should have told her. I should have told her. The thought irritated me enough to move. Marcel caught my arm.
I looked down at his hand.
He released me.
“Think,” he said.
“I did.”
I crossed the deck. People moved. The deck was crowded, but Crow anger cleared space faster than staff ever could. Conversations thinned. Laughter lowered. A woman near the bar turned away.
Sienna saw me coming and straightened.
That fear again.
God.
I hated it.
Weston saw it too. His smile did not move, but his eyes sharpened. A challenge sat there. He wanted me to notice.
I stopped beside Sienna. Close. Too fucking possessive for a man who kept telling himself he didn’t care.
“Weston,” I said.
“Jamison.”
Crows did not need warmth to recognize blood. We recognized threat better.
“You’re standing close.”
Weston’s mouth curved. “It’s a small deck.”
“It’s a large harbour.”
Sienna looked between us. “We were only talking.”
“I know what he was doing.”
Her face went pink again, but this time it was embarrassment. I wanted to hit him for making her feel it.
Weston lifted his glass. “I was complimenting your fiancée.”
“My fiancée doesn’t require your attention.”
Mine.
Sienna heard them most of all. Her eyes flicked to mine, startled. For one second, I saw the old Sienna under the hurt. The girl who wanted to be claimed by me because she thought being claimed meant being wanted.
Then the caution came back.
Weston tilted his head. “Your fiancée?”
My jaw locked.
The fucker knew exactly where to press.
My voice dropped. “You want to finish that question?”
Emmie stepped closer to Sienna. Marcel appeared at my left shoulder, calm as death.
Weston smiled. “No. I don’t think I do.”
“Smart.”
“Rarely accused of that by Harlan.”
“St. Cross sets a low bar.”
His smile thinned. Good, fuck off.
Marcel stepped between the moment and murder. “Weston, Conrad asked for you near the bar.”
Weston did not look away from me for another second.
“Enjoy your night.” he smiled at Sienna.
She nodded. “You too.”
He walked off, slowly… as if he had all the time in the world.
He didn’t.
The rest of the party moved around us, but the night had changed shape. I drank more after that. Enough for the harbour lights to blur slightly at the edges while everything important stayed viciously clear.
Sienna stayed near Emmie.
I stayed near whiskey.
Men did business around me because men always did business around power, even when power was half-drunk. There were discussions about port fees.
A licensing exchange. A quiet threat from Marcel to a shipping heir who had gotten too close to Harrington accounts.
Harrison baited me twice and backed off both times, which meant he was more worried than amused.