“Are you going to tell anyone or pretend to get married?”
A huff of laughter leaves her lips. Her cheeks are rosy. Her expression is that type of over-the-moon happy. “I don’t know. Yes, maybe for our families, but I’m really not sure.”
We’re silent for a second, Lennie glancing at her friends again.
“Is Isolde. . .” Lennie crosses her arms. “Is she going to be okay?”
I can’t guarantee shit. And she knows that. Lennie might be shy, but she’s an Akatov. Bloodshed and pain are their way of life.
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask. She stands taller. “Call your husband for me.”
She blinks. “Right now?”
I nod.
She pulls out her phone, hesitating like she doesn’t want to break the rules by making a call inside the hushed sanctuary.
The line only rings once.
“Love?” Elijah’s voice comes through.
Lennie makes a face at me when I hold up my hand. She passes the phone over, though.
“I assume by now, you’ve heard that one of your wife’s best friends has a hit out on her.”
I don’t have to see Elijah to know I’ve pissed him off. Good. I want the Zimin prick to know how serious I am.
“It’d be a real fucking shame if your bride were too heartbroken to enjoy these moments of newlywed bliss.”
“That it would.”
“His name is Cade. He dissects his opponents loved ones, and the Stuarts and the O'Connells don’t want to take him on because he’s such a fucking freak.”
Elijah won’t help me out of the goodness of his heart. I want Lennie to hear this. For her to prod him along into helping me. Which should be easier considering her husband is attracted to sociopaths like a moth to a lightbulb.
“I don’t have anyone in England,” I explain.
“And I have several,” Elijah says lightly.
He lived in Oxford for almost five years and still flies to the UK regularly. He found his most loyal guard, a man named Ivan, while he was there. Elijah’s got enough infrastructure in the UK. He’ll know the moment Cade makes a move.
“I’ll be sure to call you if I hear any gossip,” he promises. “Now hand my wife her phone back.”
The moment she has her phone back, Lennie walks to a far corner, no doubt to assure her husband she’s fine. Her face is drawn, the bubbly smile no longer there. She studies Isolde, and I know she understands now, like I do, how serious this matter is.
Adeline and Isolde are still at the candles. But Adeline’s eyes are wide when I join them.
Isolde has lit every single candle in front of her.
I’m reminded of a kid going crazy. But like always, Isolde’s moves are assured.
Her eyes are closed, not even needing to see the match hovering from candle to candle.
“You religious, Matheson?” I murmur.
Her eyes open, the blue eyes lighter thanks to the sunlight filtering through the windows. “Someone told me how you can light a candle for a person. I thought that was really nice.”
The flames flicker, and smoke tickles my nose.
