27. Jamison #2
She looked at me, cheeks warm. Her hand found mine under the table. Her fingertips traced the ink over my knuckles.
Slowly over the crow wing on my middle finger, then down to the old scar near my thumb. My entire body eased by one quiet degree.
Strange.
She did it again.
I leaned back in my chair.
Better.
A third time, her nail traced the edge of the dialect line near my wrist, and the irritation changed into something tolerable.
Interesting.
One of her brothers-in-law chose that moment to speak.
“Jamison,” he said, too eager, “while we have you here, I wondered whether you had any view on the eastern corridor arbitration.”
Sienna’s fingers stopped.
I looked at him.
“Do I look as if I came to breakfast to provide corridor arbitration?”
The man opened his mouth.
No sound came.
Sienna withdrew her hand.
Unacceptable.
I caught it under the table before she escaped fully. Her fingers went still in mine. I held them against my thigh, palm to palm.
What the fuck was happening to me?
The brother-in-law sat frozen, awaiting death, bankruptcy, or both. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have allowed suspense to educate him. Crows did not hand out advice over coffee. We withheld it until someone bled money.
But Sienna’s thumb stroked the side of my hand.
Fine.
I could offer one answer.
“Your current argument is dead. Stop defending the original service obligation and attack waste. Public efficiency. Make the arbitrator feel clever for choosing your solution.”
Julian leaned forward before he could stop himself.
Her father’s eyes sharpened.
I continued because Sienna was tracing again. “Separate Bellemere pride from operational failure. Spend it only when it buys leverage.”
The brother-in-law nodded quickly. “That’s incredibly helpful.”
“Yes.”
Sienna’s finger moved over my thumb.
Ah.
So that was the system.
Be unpleasant, lose touch.
Be useful, receive her hand.
Slow horror moved through me, colder than lake water.
She was training me.
Sienna Bellemere had discovered my leash beneath a breakfast table and begun using it with the gentlest fucking fingers imaginable.
“There is also a west-port licensing delay,” a cousin said. “If you had any thoughts—”
“I have several thoughts about men who ask for free counsel before noon.”
Sienna’s thumb stopped. Damn it. I inhaled, looked at the cousin. “Stop submitting through the old committee. They’ve already decided against you and enjoy watching you. Go through transport safety.”
The cousin stared. “That could work.”
“It will work if you stop letting your father write the letters.”
Sienna’s thumb resumed.
Excellent.
The Bellemeres smelled opportunity after that. Like wolves. A land valuation question came from one uncle. I corrected the appraisal structure and told him exactly which rainfall claims to drop before they exposed the estate to secondary review.
A shipping husband asked about donor-backed transport access. I gave him a clean path through a charitable corridor no one had bothered leveraging because this family apparently used daughters better than lawyers.
Disgusting.
Sienna stroked my hand.
Her mother, perhaps sensing the table had drifted beyond her control, set down her teacup.
“Bellemere influence has always rested on subtlety,” she said. “A softer hand often achieves more than open force.”
Sienna’s hand paused. I looked at her mother.
A softer hand.
Lovely phrase from a woman who had likely strangled daughters with silk and called it guidance.
“What you call subtlety,” I said, “often looks like withholding authority until women become useful.”
The table went silent, Sienna’s fingers slipped away.
Fuck. Too hard.
I found her hand again under the table, slower this time. I curled my fingers around hers and waited.
Punishment.
Harsh woman.
I turned back to her mother, adjusting. “A softer public face works if actual power sits behind it.”
Sienna’s thumb brushed mine once.
Victory.
I added, “Give your daughters clean authority where you use their names, power compounds.”
Her mother’s mouth tightened. Sienna’s hand settled fully into mine.
Better.
I was learning.
Under duress.
Breakfast became a financial clinic after that. A terrible development. The Bellemeres took advantage of a Crow at their table with an enthusiasm I should have punished.
Instead, I helped.
Because Sienna’s fingers traced my tattoos whenever I did.
Her hand moved over mine while I dismantled weak strategies and gave stronger ones. Over my knuckles when I said something useful. Around my thumb when I refrained from insulting one of their cousins.
Her father watched all of it with increasing unease. Good. He should feel uneasy. He had watched his table become useful to me within half an hour because his daughter had put her hand on mine.
If he had any sense, he would fear her more.
Near the end of breakfast, the children returned.
Mila climbed halfway onto Sienna’s lap again before I intercepted her.
“You just got down,” I said.
“I came back.”
“I noticed.”
She held Honey toward me. “He missed you.”
“He has poor judgment.”
“He likes scary people.”
Sienna laughed. “Does he?”
Mila nodded solemnly.
I looked at Sienna. Her cheeks turned pink.
Tomas looked up at me. “Will your baby have tattoos?”
“Eventually.”
Sienna’s hand tightened around mine, and I knew without looking she was beet red.
The children were dragged back again by parents who feared both scandal and me answering more questions.
Cowards.
Her father rose at the head of the table with the air of a man ready to reclaim order.
“We have a full day,” he announced.
The words alone exhausted me.
“Since the storm has cleared, we’ll follow the revised schedule. Children’s lake walk first, including frogs, for those already impatient.”
The children cheered.
I suffered.
“Then the garden tour before lunch. Family lunch on the south lawn. Rowing on the west lake afterward. Archery in the late afternoon. Drinks on the terrace at six. Dinner in the main house. Cards in the evening.”
I stared at him.
All day.
The torture never ended.
Sienna looked at me with a mixture of amusement and worry. “You don’t have to come to all of it.”
Her thumb moved across my hand.
But she was going.
That was the real problem.
Every ghastly event on that list included Sienna.
Sienna by the lake. Sienna in the garden.
Sienna rowing, which meant possibly wet hair.
Sienna at archery, which could be useful if her form required correction.
Sienna at dinner. Sienna at cards, where I could sit close enough to keep her hand in mine.
My answer was obvious.