Not even my own father says that shit to me. “I haven’t done anything yet, darling.”
She lifts my glass from the table, pouring half of mine in, seeing as she’s emptied hers on the damp patch of the floor. “You’ve built an entire organisation for this.”
“As have you,” I add, raising my eyebrow.
She’s done far more than I have; she’s actually helped the victims of the initiations, taking the ones that had their lives destroyed, giving them chances to rebuild, taking the weight of their revenge on her own soul.
The Montgomerys are still breathing; I don’t class myself a winner until they’re not.
“It’s nothing compared to what you have,” she adds, and I shake my head.
So oblivious to what she’s actually done with her life.
That’s a conversation for later. I have my entire life to remind her just how fucking amazing she is, how much she sings the harmony that summons my blackened heart.
“You’ve done pretty fucking well just the two of you. Besides, we’ve forged alliances now, haven’t we?”
Her cheeks heat, and I check my watch to see it’s just after 9pm. The auction should be starting soon.
“Come on. Let’s take a walk. Bring your glass,” I say, standing and reaching my hand out for her.
We slip through the sea of people, and I bring her round to my front so she walks ahead of me. I clock a number of men glancing down at her wristband.
I should be fucking commended for the control I’m displaying.
When we reach the bar, I cage her in between my arms, using it like a barrier for anyone getting near her.
Thankfully, they have a non-alcoholic option for the champagne, and when the water I order comes in a bottle, Indie physically sags against me, reaching for it and cracking the lid.
All these new behaviours I’ve picked up in our time together only adds to the suffering those fucks are going to receive at my hands.
Ourhands.
The couple next to us slides along what looks like a darkened folder across the bar’s worktop, and Indie instantly paws it, acting the part as she opens it.
My body turns rigid when she flicks the first page, noticing exactly what it is.
“Don’t,” I growl against her ear, her hands suspended mid-air as she’s about to flick the next page.
Fortunately, she actually listens to me, closing it over and sliding it along the bar again.
Disaster diverted.
I’d probably need to pull the fucking safe word myself if she saw what might be in those images, and I can’t tell her right now, not until we know for sure.
Not when we’re surrounded by soul-sucking zombies.
The bartender comes and holds out the device, and I slip my fake card in, glancing over the side as I wait for the payment to confirm.
My gaze is drawn over to the far end of the room, and I catch a glimpse of a side profile just as the door to the room closes.
No.
Can’t be?
Indie’s hand whips between us, clamping around my forearm with a vice-like grip.
“Saint,” she whispers. There’s a rough edge to it, and it drags my confused stare over to her line of sight.
