There was me thinking that smoothing Lina’s dress down her thighs, walking her to her own bedroom, and leaving her there with only a soft kiss to the top of her head and a promise to see her in the morning was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Nope. Not even close.
Lina looks amazing. Again. The dress is long this time, shimmering green-blue like peacock feathers, and draped over her gorgeous body. Gazing up at her from the bottom of the stairs, I realise what a mistake it was to agree to go to the London Mafia Syndicate meeting. Even though I called said fucking get-together.
Past me is an idiot.
Past me was desperate for my girl to be safe, and willing to negotiate with or kill any man to achieve it. But now I’m faced with two issues: one, I don’t want to share her, especially when she looks so tempting. And two, I do not want her to leave the house. I want to keep her here and ravage her like a beast.
The hardest thing I’ve ever done is not grab Lina, pull her down right here, drag that delectable dress off and fuck her until she comes on my cock with a scream.
She descends the sweeping staircase with careful steps, her high-heeled shoes unfamiliar. Can’t wait to have her barefoot again, her heels digging into my back, not balancing down the stairs.
I meet her at the final step, stopping her so I can see right into her eyes without looking down. Those pretty, blue-green eyes. Her hair is up in some fancy thing with pearls glistening amongst the dark strands. I want to pick out each one and sink my hands into the softness. But I’m not a prick. I know that a woman might have spent hours preparing for an event she was nervous about, and I can see in Lina’s face that she’s apprehensive.
It’s a little disconcerting having her above me. I like it. She’s a queen, and I’m her devoted subject.
“Do I look okay?”
“No.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she babbles. “I’m sorry—”
“You don’t look okay. You look perfect.”
“Oh!” Pink flushes her cheeks, and she dips her head. And yeah, that makes her look different perfect. Sweet and delicious and so damn tempting to throw her over my shoulder and take her to bed right now. Make that blush extend all the way down as I make her come time after time after time.
“Except for one thing.” I pull the ring box from my pocket, heart hammering at my rib cage as though its agitation could break it out of its prison.
I sink to one knee and offer up the open box. The moment of confusion is replaced by awe.
“It’s…” She sounds choked up. “Wow, that’s beautiful. That sapphire is amazing. Are you sure you want me to wear it while we’re out tonight?”
“Absolutely.” And keep it on her finger for the rest of her life, along with a wedding band. “Why don’t you take it, see if it fits?”
With slow movements, like she might disturb the ring and make it bolt away, she takes it from the box, and examines it. I stand, and my knees creek but thank me for removing them from the marble floor. By thank me, I mean, hurt like a bitch.
“You didn’t buy it especially, did you?” She turns the ring with her forefingers and thumbs, studying it. “Or have it on loan?”
“It was just hanging around,” I lie easily. Hanging around since I bought it earlier today.
“Like a family heirloom?”
“Something like that.” I would really like it to be a family heirloom Lina passes to our daughter. Maybe even one of our daughters.
She holds my gaze as she slides the ring onto her finger and my cock throbs. It fits. Of course it does. But I let go of the breath I was holding, and damn but I want to rearrange myself below the waist. Everything is uncomfortably tight in this tuxedo. My balls are primed and ready, my cock is at full mast as she smiles shyly and says, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I offer my arm, and she places her little hand on my sleeve. “Shall we go?”
“So, as your fake fiancée, what do I need to know?” she asks as we walk out to the car. “Who will be there?”
“Your friend Anwyn.”
“Oh!” She grips my arm a bit tighter. “That sounds good.”
“But don’t assume the wives are any less dangerous than the husbands. I’ve never tested any of the kids, but safe to say they are murderous too.”
She laughs, and I smile as though that was a joke. It wasn’t.
“Doesn’t matter, because I’ll protect you.” I let my arm slip down, fingers trailing over her naked shoulder.
That elicits a contented sigh, and she peeks up at me from beneath her lashes. She’s done something with them, and they appear even longer than usual. The effort she’s gone to warms me. I don’t care about the makeup or the dress. But I do appreciate that she has taken care to look good for me. That I love.
The evening seems like it is going to be usual. It’s pleasant to have an excuse to hold Lina’s hand in mine as we arrive at the meeting. There’s the same posturing, boasting, and every man looks only at his partner. It used to make me jealous as fuck. Not because I want any of the other women here—they’re fine, pretty wallpaper, nothing compared to Lina—but because I craved what Lambeth and Crosse had. Laurent, as well.
The woman I love at my side, and a cute kid or two. At the time, having Lina seemed as far away as the sun. Our age gap, my being chest deep in blood and mafia connections, her innocence. All insurmountable barriers.
But apparently when it comes to my girl’s safety, all bets are off. I want her with me, and I want to protect her. Conflicting impulses, since she’d be safer far away from all of these men.
Then the kingpin of Canary Wharf, Rhys Cavendish, walks in looking so wound up he might explode out of his suit.
“My fiancée doesn’t know I’m in the mafia,” Cavendish announces. “Everyone has to pretend this is a maths club.”
I blink. We’re the leaders of London’s grubby underworld. We’re here to discuss kidnap and murder, not feign to like algebra.
“Amateur dramatics is next door,” drawls Laurent.
“I’m not doing that.” Rafe Blackwood, the leader of Sutton, folds his arms. “Not happening.”
Cavendish glares daggers and reaches inside his jacket for his piece.
Oh great. Just what I need. Some fight breaking out over trivial nonsense that could derail this whole thing and kill any chance of me using this meeting to find out who was stupid enough to come after me. I push Lina behind me without thinking. If shit is going down, any bullet will go into me, not her.
Westminster clears his throat and both Cavendish and Blackwood shoot glares at him like two arguing schoolboys. He tilts his chin up and they both curl their lips as they put their hands away from their guns.
“Why the hell does she think this is a mathematics club?” Lambeth asks, rolling his eyes.
“I’ve been under…” Cavendish hesitates. “A lot of pressure recently. It was a sudden situation.”
“Honesty is the best policy–”
“No,” Cavendish snaps, cutting Lambeth off.
Next to me, Lina snorts with laughter. And her amusement releases me. If she thinks this is funny. Fine. I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her flush to my side.
“We’ll do it.” I called this meeting. It runs by my rules.
Westminster raises his eyebrows infinitesimally. I do the same back, daring him. His blonde wife tugs on his arm and he immediately leans down so she can whisper in his ear. And whatever she says, convinces him.
He nods agreement and begrudgingly, everyone else follows our lead. Westminster might not be as rich as Mayfair, but it has influence.
“Just be creative with your numbers,” I say, thinking that I really have to be able to actually get down to some business talk, despite this inconvenience. Lina’s side vibrates against me, and I look down to see her face full of mirth. I pull her closer still, smiling. Damn, but seeing my girl happy is a sheer delight.
“The first rule of maths club is don’t talk about maths club,” Lambeth says, mouth twitching.
“Don’t. Start,” Cavendish snarls, then spots someone and strides away as Laurent sniggers.
“I’ll take her aside for some social stuff. Leave you boys to talk,” Lambeth’s wife reassures… I dunno, everyone, I think. We all turn and look as Cavendish meets his girl.
A blonde woman in a green dress stands in the doorway. I glance at Lina’s raven hair, so dark it’s almost blue. Her stark beauty outshines every other woman by a mile. Far too lovely for her own good. I tighten my fingers at her waist and tentatively, as though she’s not sure she’s doing the right thing, she places her hand over mine.
While we’re all smirking and being politely accommodating of Cavendish’s stupid facade, all my attention is on Lina’s hand. I can feel her engagement ring, sharp against my knuckle.
Lambeth’s wife draws Cavendish’s away. And fuck, I do not want to let Lina go. But Crosse’s wife, who used to work with Lina, is coming over smiling, and I cannot think of a single reason that Lina should stay with me and be terrified by what I am.
Except one. I want her by my side.
“Lina!”
“Anwyn.” Lina smiles with genuine pleasure. I see how this could be between us. Lina could fit into this life.
They hug and are straight into catch-up chatter. “There are cocktails waiting,” Anwyn says, trying to drag Lina away, but Lina digs in her heels.
“What about the…” Her gaze flicks to Crosse and the other mafia bosses standing around and proud as fuck of her. “I could stay?”
“I’ll take care of everything.” She belongs with me, but I cannot be an arsehole about this. Anwyn is her friend. “Go and represent Mayfair in the women’s mathematics conversation.”
She blinks up at me, surprised.
I lean down and whisper, “You’re my fiancée, remember?”
For a second, she melts against me. But when I withdraw, there’s a shadow over her eyes.
“Fake,” she mouths with a rueful twist of her mouth, then turns away, following Crosse’s wife.
I go cold.
Idiot. I should never have suggested a fake date. Nothing about how I feel is put on.
By the end of tonight, I swear I’m going to resolve this. The threat to her life, yes. Then I’m going to convince Lina—by any possible means and I’m not above seducing and getting her pregnant if that’s what’s needed—to stay with me.
First though, there’s the minor issue of taking out whoever is trying to kill us. When we all settle around a table and whiskey is poured, I take the paper I prepared from my pocket and slide it into the middle.
“This is a list of everyone I can think of that Victor… Did some algebra with.” And by algebra, I mean, killed someone they loved. It’s a long list. “I’d appreciate your help with identifying which of these is most likely to have been seeking a solution to their maths problem.”
Nobody moves. I curse inwardly. Fucking hell. I’m here, aren’t I? I agreed to this ridiculous club, and now I need some assistance, they’re all going to be arseholes.
Admittedly, there might be some of their names on that list. My shitty brother. I should have killed him long ago.
“If you’re looking for information about equations, I’ll need to discuss that with my wife,” Laurent says.
“Pussy whipped,” sniggers one of the others.
“If that’s what you want to call it.” Laurent smirks with the confidence of a man utterly secure in his skin. “My wife is a ruthless mathematician,” he adds and makes the word seem sexy. “I value her opinion as well as her—”
“I don’t think it’s any of them,” Crosse flicks the paper back into the middle of the table.
“What?” That list is comprehensive. I sweated over it, as did Vlad.
There’s a brief scuffle as everyone else decides they want to see what is on the list, and it ends up with Cavendish and Blackwood at a careful truce both reading at a ninety-degree angle.
Crosse shrugs. “They all know the deal. Maths spats happen. Most of these were a while ago, and Victor is ah—” He glances over to where the women are sitting. Probably out of earshot, but not definitely. “He’s zero now.”
Crosse doesn’t add that the most recent incident involved him, and was the tipping point for me killing my brother and his nod to me says it all. If he can forgive Mayfair for attempting to kidnap his wife, and successfully kidnapping his son, why would anyone else hold a grudge?
I swear under my breath.
“I’d look internally, were I you,” Crosse continues.
I think of my reluctance to appoint a second-in-command. How Vlad seems to be the perfect choice, but I can’t bring myself to trust him.
“What about your number one?”
For a moment, I don’t know who Crosse means. Whose idea was going along with this maths nonsense? It’s bloody ridiculous. Then I bristle. “Lina is not involved with this equation.”
“How do you know?”
I don’t.
“Or could your nephew be involved with Victor’s algebra?” suggests Laurant. “Wasn’t there a family disagreement—”
“Have you met Sergey?” My tone is sarcastic. “My nephew Sergey wants nothing to do with Mayfair. Only crossing pens with Crosse’s son.”
Crosse winces but nods. “If it’s any consolation, I’m hoping the child Anwyn is pregnant with currently will be more inclined to take over Westminster’s fine mathematical tradition than my firstborn. But honestly, I don’t think any of this list should be worrying you.”
“Anyone else?” The paper has been passed around, and there’s some chatter. But not the comprehensive, clear answer I was hoping for.
“I will look at my own team then, to solve this maths problem.” My jaw clenches. I thought everyone was happy with the changes I’d made, or at least obedient. “Zero is a dish best served cold. Whoever it is, I’ll make them pay.”
At the end of that little speech, I look up to find my kisa watching me across the room. Her eyes are wide with—fuck that’s fear, isn’t it?
Simultaneously, I realise two things. I am in love with Lina. Not obsession. Not lust. This is DNA-level love, a part of me, and will always be. Every piece of me adores her and wants what is best for her.
I love her, and she fears me. She’s only here because I kidnapped her. I turn away, heart compressing painfully.
Because the other thing I realise is—I have to set her free.
