17
REID
I keep thinking I catch a whiff of my come and the scent of sex when Callie moves, and I’m a possessive arsehole, because I like it. I love it.
She’s mine, and I want everyone to know it.
“Woodford, you’re ruining the aesthetic, I told you it was a fae ball.”
I turn to stare back at the glowering face of Grant Lambeth. He’s irritated, and his South London accent is more pronounced than usual.
“It’s hard to take you seriously when you’re wearing bat wings.” He’s in a costume of black leather in some sort of fantasy style, complete with pointy ears.
Lambeth folds his arms and shakes his head. “My wife arranged it, and it’s excellent. But this,” he plucks at the lapel of my tuxedo, “isn’t good enough.”
I press my hand reassuringly into Callie’s waist. She’s gone stiff with worry, but there’s really no reason. Lambeth won’t touch me, and he’s such a softie that he would do anything for his wife. Including unalive anyone who threatens her, arrange for all the London Mafia Bossesto come to the event that she organised, and nag actual kingpins about not adhering to the dress code.
He’s even wearing leather and wings.
There’s no trace of self-consciousness in his movements, either. His wife wanted this—I’m certain it wasn’t Lambeth—and so he’s there. I’ve never given his actions any thought one way or another before, but I understand now. I’d lie on hot coals for Callie. I’d be shot again, so she has to continue tending my wound. Bat wings? Hardly registers.
“My apologies. If you have a tiara, I’ll put it on. But only if you have a matching one for Callie.”
Lambeth slides his indifferent gaze over to Callie. “Nice to meet you, Callie.”
“Are you feeling better?” Edmonton, a massive Russian man emerges from the crowd and catches my eye. A few of the members of the London Mafia Syndicate are just behind him. They’re mainly my neighbours, but there are a few, like Norwood, who are overly interested in violence and have been involved with the Essex situation, and Westminster and Mayfair, who think they run the whole of London so are always at the centre of any discussion.
“I’m still alive, if that’s what you mean,” I reply.
“You ask an old friend about his potentially fatal injury and get grumbled at,” Lambeth says to Edmonton, shaking his head at me. Edmonton shrugs with Russian philosophicalness.
Are we friends?
Huh. Strange. I tighten my hold on Callie. I spend time with these men, but I’ve never really thought about them as my friends. My colleagues, yes. My men are my employees. They’re the people I spend most time with—apart from Callie these days—but they’re not my confidantsor my friends.
I look down into Callie’s face, and her thoughts are all over her expressive face. She thinks I’m being rude.
I take a breath. “Sorry. It’s much better, thanks.”
“How is the scar tissue holding up? Has it gone tight and itchy yet?” Westminster asks intently, his posh accent deep and plummy.
“Yeah, that’s a horrible stage.” Edmonton makes a face. “I swear the itching is worse than the initial pain. Pure fucking torture.”
“It itches like a bitch,” I admit.
And then everyone is talking about various wounds they’ve had, and whether knife wounds that slice are worse than penetrative wounds. I discover that I’m not the only one who has had a bullet in the upper arm, and Mayfair has advice about physio. Lambeth is insistent that knife wounds to the hands are the most painful thing he’s ever experienced, and Edmonton shows off an honestly impressive scar on his lower leg, where it looks like a shark took a bite out of him.
I’m surprised to find I’m enjoying myself.
I wonder. Maybe these men could be my friends? Perhaps they already are. And would Callie be my…? Just mine, if I asked her.
There’s a sense that everything is possible at this ridiculous fairy ball. It must be the glitter, or the scent of jasmine, or the over-the-top costumes. It makes me feel like I could take on anything, and I wouldn’t have to be alone.
Even if I still don’t want anyone but Callie touching me.
“Oh I love your dress!” Lambeth’s blonde wife appears next to him, and smiles at Callie.
“Darling, Callie is not fresh meat for your book club,” Lambeth says dryly.
