Page 64 of Golden Burn

“Shame about your inventory,” Odin says. “I’d hate to have a repeat, with your supply chain already struggling.”

There’s a slight rush of whispers from the end of the table. I glance downward and notice two men sneering at Odin like snakes. I don’t know what he means about the inventory, but I sense it’s not good.

“It’s a bit early to be speaking business at the dinner table.” Cerbera raises his brows. “And in front of your fiancée.” Hetskslike a disappointed mother, then falls into silence, as do the people around us. Althoughthey have not moved an inch, it seems like everyone is leaning in our direction, desperate to gobble down even a scrap of information.

A waiter places the first course in front of me, while another takes the linen napkin from my hands and places it on my lap. I want to say thank you, but my jaw locks tight, the words stuck behind my tongue.

Dom draws attention to himself by clearing his throat. “Despite the small hiccup, my team has finalized the contract, and would like to know your thoughts on it. As soon as—”

“Not now,” Cerbera gives Dom a tiny displeased smirk and begins to cut his raw kingfish.

Dom adjusts his glasses. “We understand there is a—”

“I said not now!” He shouts and slams his knife into the table. It’s like an electric shock, the way his voice snaps across the room. My entire body jolts as I watch the handle of the knife wobble, the tip completely embedded in the table. My stomach shrivels when I see how close it was to my fingers. Not even an inch.

I quickly glance at Odin. His chest rises with deep, steady inhales, though his eye is ablaze. He lifts the fingers of his right hand, trying to remind me to be calm, like a trainer steadying a terrified horse about to bolt.

I swallow a shaky breath and try to focus on eating.

Cerbera’s voice—and it’s complete change in tone—stuns me so much I nearly drop my cutlery. “Ms. Lewis, tell me, what do you think of your soon-to-be husband?”

My teeth grind in my mouth as my mind whirls.

Remember. You hate him. You hate him. You hate him.

“He’s a monster,” I say finally.

Cerbera speaks around a mouth full of food. “Ah, it’s the eye, isn’t it? Horrible to look at. Beauty and the Beast.” He chuckles, and a fewmen at the table join in, like they're his own traveling chorus. It speaks volumes about the man who conducts them.

“It’s not his disfigurement,” I reply, a nuanced anger sprouting in my chest. “It’s his actions. His soul. I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done to me.”

I don’t dare look at Odin, mostly because if I do, I’ll want to take the words back.

“She’s going to slit your throat in the middle of the night,” Cerbera says to Odin. My future husband looks bored, as if that threat has been hurled his way too many times.

“She’s more than welcome to try,” Odin replies, his voice as sharp as the knife sitting next to my hand.

Idle conversation ensues. My eyes roam around the table, taking in those seated. The men ignore their wives to speak in low murmurs. The wives, clearly used to this, start to dust cocaine onto the table, sectioning it up into thin lines with credit cards and sniffing them up with paper bills. I try to keep a straight face, but I’m afraid it’s twisted into a permanent grimace.

I’d hate to be married to those sacks of flesh. The thought alone has my foot reaching across to touch Odin’s. When it does, he lifts his eye to me and I’m struck by the intensity of his deep gaze. The clash of worry and anger. The evident desperation to maintain my safety.

The homely sensation spreads through my chest as we communicate without words. I’ve never had a real life partner—besides my mother—someone that has my back as much as I have there’s. It dawns on me in an instant that Odin is beginning to fit that mold.

The gold eyepatch consumes him in this light, but I see beyond it. I hope he sees beyond my mask, too.

Martise and Dom make stiff conversation with those next to them. But for the most part, it’s silent. Neither side of the table wants anything to do with each other. I have never sat through a more burdensome and awkward dinner.

“I hear you are good with a scalpel,” Cerbera says to me as the first course is taken away, and the second is placed in front of us. Steak so fresh and undercooked it’s practically still beating.

“I am,” I admit. There’s no point in lying.

Cerbera finishes his mouthful and yanks the knife he stabbed into the table out of its resting place. “You know this game.” He turns the knife, so it’s tip down, places his palm on the table, and spreads his fingers wide. He pokes the knife between the gaps in his fingers, one after the other, after the other. Gradually, the knife moves faster, but he never knicks his own skin. I hate to admit it’s impressive. He stops suddenly and passes me the knife’s handle. “You try.” I gingerly lift my fingers, unsure what to do, what to say.

“Harriet,” Odin warns me, shifting.

“Do you not trust her skills, Mr. Bolt?”

His grip on the wine glass tightens. “She doesn’t need to prove anything to you.”

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