Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Leith
After finishing strong on the rowing machine in my home gym, I complete a rotating kettlebell workout that targets every muscle in the body.
Time was, as a teen, when physical labor was my only fitness, but under that simple regimen I grew strong and hardy.
Ever since, in the gym I’ve mimicked the movements I performed while working for vintners, boatmakers, and longshoremen.
In the middle of a kettlebell snatch my phone buzzes with a call. I wait till I’ve completed my set before sauntering over to retrieve my mobile.
Declan.
I call him back.
“Awright?” he greets.
“Awright.”
He chuckles. “Let me guess: you’re working out.”
“How’d you know?”
“All the tension has left your voice. Like an overstretched elastic band.” He hems. “About your wedding.”
“What about it?” I’m surprised Declan is even bringing it up.
“Darian apparently thinks you might be jockeying for the boss position.” An apologetic note enters Declan’s voice. “To curb you, he invited Hume Irving to the wedding.”
“The lawyer? Who wants to prove I committed murder?” Rage seizes me, and I ball my fists. “Darian invited him to my fucking wedding?”
I’m not surprised Darian knows Irving is bringing charges of murder against me. He has his ear to the ground where legal cases and law enforcement are concerned.
“I know, I know, he has no right,” Declan placates. “But from where he’s standing, he thinks you have a chance with the twins. He thinks he’s securing his own spot by cutting yours off.”
“He’s a fucking fool.” I scoff. “What is he hoping for, a showdown that makes me look ridiculous? Negative press coverage? Because there will be no press at my wedding.”
“Nothing so sinister as that,” Declan counters. “He just wants to undermine your prospects for boss by suggesting you can’t handle law enforcement sniffing into your affairs. Or by showing you panic when you’re investigated for murder. I wanted to give you fair warning.”
“I appreciate your warning, but it’s not necessary.” I swipe a towel over my sweaty brow. “Though I’m glad to know I no longer have to be courteous to your brother.”
Declan laughs. “That, never. Just know I’m on your side.”
“Until I really am jockeying for the boss position,” I bait.
“Maybe even then,” he says cryptically.
“Just know I won’t go easy on your brother—at the wedding or elsewhere,” I clip.
“Like I say, I’ll back you up, when I can.”
“As if I want the position of boss,” I grit. “Too many headaches, too little rewards. Anyway, Diran and Callum want it to be all in the family.”
“You’re family, Leith. Trust me.”
I feel that too, in my bones. But I want nothing to do with the competition for boss.
“Can you see yourself falling for her?” Declan poses, switching gears.
“Why? Will that affect your support?”
He speaks cautiously. “All those tests were fake—the blood bond, the hypothetical scenarios. Yet she passed them with flying colors. I can’t imagine you don’t appreciate her grit and resilience.”
“I may, but the original project still holds.”
Murdering my wife.
When we’ve rung off, I recall Iona’s bravery in facing the tests Diran and I put to her the other night.
Reflecting on her spirit as she challenged me and the Syndicate, I smile.
For the tenth time since she came to me asking for help, I wonder what her story is.
If I can use it against her, it’s worth extracting it.
Tapping through my phone, I book us tickets on the Caledonian Sleeper for Saturday night.
Our honeymoon is as good a time as any to do the deed.
* * *
I spend the rest of the day with two of the Syndicate’s tech guys, Niven and Paul, looking for traces of Dallis Leavy.
After putting in a request with the court to subpoena Leavy, I conduct thorough research into his family and connections.
Assuming the COPFS is protecting him, I opt not to threaten his nearest and dearest, but I have Niven track them, in case they lead us to him.
In light of my earlier conversation with Declan, I wonder whether the Lowing case is Diran’s way of letting me prove myself, in case push comes to shove and I’m the best candidate for boss.
The thought of attaining that position doesn’t motivate me any more keenly—I do what I do out of loyalty and the love of money—but I appreciate being considered one of Diran’s sons.
When Galiene arrives in the late afternoon, we brainstorm solutions to the Lowing case.
She hasn’t advanced much further in re-creating the list from her research.
I approach the problem from the angle of who has the burden of proof.
If we turn the tables on the Procurator Fiscal and force him to show how the list isn’t ours, we can devise answers to all his reasons.
Assigning Galiene that task, I lean back in my swivel chair and stack my ankles on the desk, scrubbing a hand over my jaw.
It’s a shame Lowing himself is so disliked by the authorities, since otherwise we might use his influence to sway the court.
If anything, his name acts like a red cloth spurring the bull of the law to attack.
Thoughts of Irving and his case against me for murder rise unbidden in my head. If I’m charged with murder at the same time I’m pleading for the Syndicate’s right to the Lowing list, I’ll have to anticipate attacks on my character. They’ll come from the press, the court, and the public all at once.
At least my Syndicate job is safe in such a climate. If anything, murder enhances the CV of a Crew advisor. But I can’t let Irving win for several reasons.
One, being charged with murder makes it more likely people will suspect me when Iona is found dead.
Two, murder charges decrease my chances of winning the Lowing case.
Three, I’ll be damned if I give Irving the pleasure of victory.
And four, I won’t give my deceased guardian the satisfaction—even beyond the grave—of seeing me pay the price for his death.
My frustration at not accomplishing more in the legal arena bleeds over to thoughts of Iona. There, at least, I can satisfy myself by fucking with her head.
Starting now.
* * *
Iona
As I toss a salad of greens, roasted beets, and goat cheese, my phone buzzes on the bunker. I turn it right side up and see it’s Leith. My heart does a back flip.
Putting down the tongs, I swipe up. “Satan.”
His satiny voice pours down the line. “A fitting name, considering I belong in you, Flame.”
“If I could make you burn for eternity, I’d take you up on your offer,” I sass, blushing to my roots.
“Offer? It’s a promise.”
His smooth tone and salacious words make my core clench. I dart my tongue out and moisten my parched upper lip. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
I can hear the smirk in his voice. “I’d like you to make an announcement on Insta to the effect that we’re marrying on Saturday and you’re moving in with me.
Tell the story of how we met, how I proposed to you—minus me falling in the loch—and how we decided on our honeymoon destination.
It’s London, by the way. Have plenty of pictures to document everything. ”
I swipe the back of my hand over my brow. “How can I do that, when we don’t have any pictures?”
“Come up with something,” he instructs breezily. “The power of suggestion is strong. We have a few photos from the engagement party.”
“How did we decide on the honeymoon destination?” I question.
“Between us, it’s the end of the Caledonian Sleeper train route. But make up a few other compelling reasons.”
Fury rises in my chest. “What if I get them wrong? I know next to nowt about you.”
“Extrapolate as best you can.”
Why do I feel as if he’s giving me an impossible task?
Yet I’m determined to rise to the occasion. “Anything else, Your Highness?”
“Careful, I may have you keep that form of address.”
I roll my eyes. “You want me to hold the post until you’ve okayed it?”
“Of course. Send it to me in an hour.”
The room’s temperature spikes. “An hour?”
“You’ll be posting it tomorrow at 6 a.m.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” I look longingly at my salad. Looks as if I’ll be eating while creating content. I’ve been working all day, but the sooner I can get him off my back, the sooner I’ll have peace of mind.
Also, truth be told, I’m champing at the bit to show him what I can come up with under these tough conditions.
“Good luck, Flame.” With that, he rings off.
A few seconds later, five photos from the engagement party come in from his phone.
We look fabulous together—me in my cerulean gown and him in his tux.
His unmistakably possessive air contrasts with my giddiness, and our chemistry sizzles.
Swallowing, I pore over his features that ooze charisma and power.
I can’t deny the tingling between my thighs, the steady thump of my clit, or the little fires licking at my core.
“What good is all that, when he’s a pure bastard?” I ask aloud.
Closing out of the photos, I start my project. After finding a good template in Canva, I plan for six slides, with two for the fictitious meeting story and two for the made-up proposal. The first will be the announcement, and the last will be info on our honeymoon destination.
It takes me a good half-hour to find generic photos for the slides. On the announcement page I feature one of our photos from the other night. It takes me another half-hour to word the announcement.
By the time Leith calls, I’ve only finished the first slide.
Gnawing a fingernail, I swipe up. “I haven’t finished yet. I need another hour.”
“Send it to me no later than 10. I go to bed at 10:30,” he dictates.
“You only gave me this task an hour ago,” I remind him.
“And this is your profession, Iona.”
A flush steals over me. “I’ll have it ready.”
“Good girl.” He rings off.