I stare at the amber liquid, the smoky scent rising from the mug.
I’ve been carrying so much for so long that my arms feel like they’re permanently aching. My chest hurts from just existing. Maybe, just maybe, one night where I don’t drown in my thoughts wouldn’t be the worst thing.
I lift the mug.
Fern clinks hers against it. “To Eden.”
Martha follows, more softly. “To surviving.”
My eyes sting, but I swallow it back and tap my mug to theirs. “To trying.”
I take a sip. It burns like hell, but it warms something inside me that’s been ice cold for weeks.
Fern slumps dramatically, kicking her boots off. “Right. Now we talk about anything except the men. No trauma or doom. I want light, fluffy, ridiculous nonsense.”
Martha grins. “We could talk about the time Fern tried to dye her pubes purple.”
Fern throws a cushion at her. “You swore you’d take that to the grave!”
I choke on my Scotch.
For the next hour, they tell stupid stories, tease each other. And for the first time since everything happened, I feel a tiny flicker of myself again.
KADE
The back room of the casino is dim, thick with cigar smoke and money. Plush red carpets, dark panelled walls, a single roundtable in the centre, like something out of a crime documentary. Two men frisk me and Diesel before they let us through.
Nathan Cole sits at the table already. Broad-shouldered, late forties, dressed like he owns half of London. Slick silver hair. Immaculate suit. Diamond cuff-links. One look at him and you understand the stories.
He doesn’t look up when we enter. He speaks instead.
“Nottingham bikers in my casino.” His pen scratches across a ledger. “Either this is my lucky day or the start of a headache.”
I pull out the chair opposite him and sit. “We appreciate the time,” I say.
Nathan finally looks up. His eyes are icy, calculating. He studies me, then Diesel, then me again.
“Make it worth it,” he replies.
I lean back, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “I want to talk to you about Jimmy Harker.”
Nathan lifts one brow. “Already bored.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
He sighs like I’m inconveniencing him. “You called a private meeting with London’s most profitable distributor just to gossip about that little rat?”
“No,” I correct. “I came to offer you a better option.”
Nathan sets his pen down. Now he’s listening.
“Go on.”
“Cut him out,” I say plainly. “Deal directly with us instead.”
Diesel rests his elbows on the table, arms crossed. Nathan flicks his gaze between us, unimpressed.
“Why?” he asks. “He’s cheap and desperate. That makes him useful.”
