Hadrian is in his navy suit, sitting in the shadows thanks to the dim light. He’s already got an empty bottle in front of him.
He looks absolutely miserable.
“Hey.” I slide in across from him. “Happy birthday. Next round is on me, so whatever birthday shots it’ll be.”
The dim lighting has an eerie effect on him. A pale pallor makes him look ill. His hair is mussed, the dark locks slightly curlier than I’ve ever seen them.
“This is the guy,” I’d asked my sister all those years ago. Sammie’s ghost hears my thoughts. She shoots me a look, sitting beside Hadrian in the booth, her face muted with pain. Despite everything, she really did like him. She knew that whatever demons he got himself tangled up in, it wouldn’t do him any good.
“Look, for Harry’s sake, let’s act like we’re friends again.” I lean back in the hard booth, the seating void of the normal cushions. There’s writing all over the table and chairs. I’d think the bar would skew for a younger crowd if it weren't for the mixture of the patrons’ ages.
“Agreed.” Hadrian tips his beer to his lips, belatedly remembering only dredges are left.
Harry swoops in at the right time, gifting him with a new one.
“Thanks.” I take the offered beer. Harry climbs into the booth next to me. The music isn’t so obnoxious that we can’t speak to one another, but that somehow makes it worse. Because it means we have to actually speak to one another.
“How is work?” Harry asks me.
“Shit. I’ve been sidelined.”
Hadrian snorts. Harry shoots his brother a look.
“You?” I ask him.
Harry and Hadrian both work for their father. For generations, the Hallows have owned some fancy conglomerate. It started overseas, in England to be precise, before William moved to the US. He grew up in London, where he probably learned to hate the Stuarts.
“It’s not been bad.” Harry leans his elbows on the table at complete ease.
He’s older than Hadrian, but is like Dimitri Zimin who often defers to Lev. I know Hadrian has climbed up high at the family business, likely more of a hardass than his own father. Harry never shows a hint of a grudge or jealousy that his baby brother is a step above him on the corporate ladder.
“So. . .” Harry stirs his straw around his soda. It’s bad news if he’s struggling to come up with conversation. “Things going okay?”
“I still got a bodyguard, don’t I?”
I regret the bluntness when a shadow sweeps over Harry’s face.
“Things are all right,” I quickly amend. “Everything will work out.”
“Will they?” Hadrian drawls. It’s the most words he’s spoken since I sat down.
“Yes, they will,” Harry says on my behalf.
“Isolde drew the ire of a madman,” Hadrian says. “And she’s being her usual stubborn self.”
“Sounds like somebody else I know.”
“Sounds like who?” A woman appears at the edge of the table.
I catch sight of blonde hair and blue eyes, but despite sharing those two traits, we couldn’t be farther from one another.
The tall woman curiously eyes me. “Hi.”
Hadrian lets out a sigh, scooting over. She sits down, unbothered by his bubble of grumpiness.
“Morgan, this is Isolde,” Harry introduces. “Our stepsister,” he explains.
I nod. “Hiya.”
