My brain snags on something. “Frank?”
“Could’ve been his name,” Declan mutters. He kisses my shoulder, soft, absentminded, far too gentle for a man likehim who just did the things that he did to me. Then he stands, fixes his clothes, tucks himself away like nothing happened.
“Get dressed,” he says, voice steadying. “We need to talk.”
A price. On my head. And the only thing keeping it from being collected is a pretend marriage to Declan.
“A price?” I lean forward at the restaurant, a fancy place that doesn’t suit Declan at all, the kind of place Mother loves, the type that makes me suffocate inside.
I hate it.
His brothers are here with their wives. I’m dressed in red. Dark red. Backless. Flowing. A dress that gives Declan an excuse to touch skin whenever he wants.
This place suits both Ava and Lucie, but like Declan, the Murphy men don’t belong.
They could. All of them could.
They’re smart, gorgeous, well dressed, and could fit in anywhere. If they chose to.
But they don’t give a fuck.
Disdain is evident on Callahan’s face, a man Declan looks at with love and admiration, a man who scares the hell out of me.
Seamus, like Declan, looks as if he’s ready to cause trouble at a moment’s notice if he chooses to. Just to cure his boredom.
The wealthy don’t start trouble. They display their shoes. Their watches. Their hollow lives.
But we’re here for the birthday dinner of a woman I’ve seen in the papers—a rich, dangerous criminal queen. A woman with more power than half the donors who support the ballet.
Torin and Harriet are the only ones whoblend with the moneyed elite because they’re ghosts. They blend in by disappearing.
But pedigree, wealth, polish…it’s all the same game. A game I grew up inside.
Declan doesn’t fit because he refuses to play. He’d tear this place down for fun if the mood took him.
It’s thrilling.
It’s terrifying.
It’s new.
“A price,” I say again.
“Yes,” Declan murmurs. “A price. On your head. Unless we can cancel it, you’ll have to keep pretending to be my obedient bride.”
“Can you cancel it?”
He shrugs, casual as sin, takes a drink from the waitress hovering at his elbow.
“Depends, Molly, on how well you play your part.”
“My picture gets taken, now there’s a hit out on me, and I’m the one who has to ‘play right’?” I grit out.
He leans in, voice razor-sharp. “I didn’t do a fucking thing. You were caught where you shouldn’t have been.”
“Why are we even here?” I look around.
This isn’t the birthday party. It’s the exclusive pre-dinner. And I know some of these faces—ballet donors, society parasites, people orbiting the world my parents live in.
