“Blackfen.” A man pushes through the group, most of whom are staring at us now. “It’s good to see you.” The Russian flat intonations and clipped words are reassuring somehow after these days with Kirill’s similar way of speaking, but there are intakes of breath from all around us.
“A psychopath,” someone mutters. “Anti-social.”
My chin goes up. I don’t know why Kirill wanted to come here, but I won’t accept anyone being mean about my boyfriend.
Fakeboyfriend, but still.
“Easy, lapochka,” Kirill says, but lets go of my hand, and part of me panics. Then he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close to his side.
“Mayfair,” he greets the Russian man who is before us now.
The posh man recovers with the sort of ease only the very arrogant and influential can pull off. “Good to meet you at last, Blackfen. Welcome. What would you and your guest like to drink? And you are staying for dinner, I insist. I want you to meet…” He continues on with surprising warmth, and in moments we both have a glass in our hands and have been introduced to a dozen people.
Kirill doesn’t stop touching me as we meet the London Maths Club, half of whom are men I’d be wary of if they walked into the pub, because they look like they might have just bought the whole place, or pull a gun if you don’t do what they want.
But I’m with Kirill, and his hand consistently on my waist, moving me with him, is comforting. However dangerous these men are, they’re the ones who are suspicious, and a bit nervous, of the man at my side.
The names are confusing. The men are generally called by their London territory area, and call Kirill Blackfen. The posh man turns out to be Westminster, and appears to be nominallyin charge. The mafia boss’ wives, who are around my age or a bit older, intimidatingly gorgeous, well-dressed, and far friendlier than I expect, introduce themselves with only their first names.
I try to keep quiet and listen, but one of the women brings me into her conversation after she introduces herself as Willow.
“Tess, there’s an important question we need you to weigh in on.Pride and Prejudice, the romance written by Jane Austen in the Regency?”
“It’s alright, I know about it,” I say, a bit confused.
“Which camp are you in? One of the films, the old television series, paperback, hardback, audio, or ebook?” Willow looks at me intensely.
Kirill’s hand moves up my back and it’s all I can do to focus on what Willow is saying, because I have to bite back a moan as Kirill’s hand reaches my neck. Then he drops a kiss to the top of my head and continues his conversation seamlessly, as though to give me permission to stop paying him attention, because we’re that secure in each other.
“Um.” What’s the right answer here? Turns out I’m glad of the kissing practice. Without it, I don’t think I’d be managing not to drag Kirill into a corner to allow him more access to my body.
“I won’t be offended, don’t worry,” Willow adds. “Lily and I obviously prefer physical books, but we understand that others have different?—”
“Wrong,” interjects the girl who comes up next to her.
“Opinions,” Willow finishes. “How can you say that, Lily, when you won’t even accept a nice, readable paperback these days? Her bookshop is all hardback special editions with sprayed edges and foil covers,” she says to me as an aside.
Then another woman strolls over, drink in hand, and announces she will defend the honour of the movie with her last breath, and I’m laughing genuinely at their good-natured banter, while also hyper-aware that Kirill is next to me.
“So what about you, Tess? What’s your favourite?” Willow repeats after they’ve discussed the film.
“I’m an ebook fan, to be honest,” I confess awkwardly.
“Excellent choice,” she enthuses. “Practical. Have you heard about the change in terms and conditions for ebooks?”
“Yeah.” I hide a smile, and Kirill squeezes my waist. Our secret.
I’m warm all over from Kirill’s careful attention as we’re swept along by the London Maths Club’s energy. We’re not given the option about whether to eat with them, it’s assumed. And what’s really nice is that Kirill and I are seated next to each other. He has Westminster on his other side, and I have Lina, Mayfair’s wife.
Kirill kisses me when I least expect it. Just casual but possessive brushes of lips on the top of my head, my cheek, or my hand when I’m beginning to feel overwhelmed by all the people and noise.
He’s my anchor, and I wonder if maybe I’m his. He doesn’t stop touching me, keeping our hands linked, his arm over the back of my chair, or his foot reassuringly pressed to mine.
And it all goes well, I think. I even manage to catch most of the names at the table.
After dessert—a multi-layer custard and flaky pastry cake called Torte Napoleon—everyone is drinking tea, warm cherry compote, whisky, or coffee, I’m honestly enjoying myself when a discussion escalates to raised voices.
Kirill immediately leans closer to me.
