Page 4 of Captive Mafia Wife

My brother’s deep voice fills the landing. “What are you supposed to be? A crayon?”

Embarrassed to be caught checking my costume—again—I stiffen. “I’m a marker. See?” I point at the letters running down my front. “All black plastic with the name of the color in white, with purple at the top.” I point to purple Sasha. “Where the felt-tip marker thingy is.”

He’s got something in the hollow of one palm. On closer look, I see the candied pecans I made for the party. Correction, requested Cheffie to make. I'm not allowed nearthe stove after an incident involving me, a fire, and a frozen pizza.

He pops one in his mouth. He shrugs. “Same as a crayon.”

“Callum Burnes, you are infuriating.” I start ticking off on my fingers. “A—I told you not to touch the food till the guests arrive.” Callum and his massive men casually grazing a table of snacks can hoover the entire spread in a matter of minutes. “And B—crayons are all one color, AND they don’t write the name of the color on the crayon, just the brand.”

“Yes, they do,” he says.

Hands to my hips, I say, “No, they don’t.”

“They do.” Intent on raising my blood pressure to stroke levels, he crunches on another pecan before saying, “I remember asking Miss Jane what the hell ‘burnt sienna’ was and getting a demerit for language.”

“Let’s agree to disagree—we’re likely both wrong. And you only remember Miss Jane’s class because you had a crush on her. When she was like forty, and you were nine. Gross.”

He gives me that cocksure smile of his. “What can I say? I’m an early bloomer?”

“Ha!” I challenge. “Not in monogamy. That’s fairly new to you.”

“Fiona is the only woman who could tame my Viking blood.” He finishes his illegal snacking and brushes his hands off. His grin drops, his bottle-green gaze going severe. “Speaking of, when will we be getting you married off?”

“Let me see.” I bring my wrist up to glance down at my nonexistent watch. “How about half past NEVER?”

Tired of the subject, I step from the landing to the top of the stairs, but Callum grabs my arm. “Freya.” He’s pulling me back.

“Yes?”

The look on his face makes the tiny, baby-fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I’m serious,” he says.

“Callum. We’ve discussed this.” Like, a thousand times. “I don’t need a man to keep me safe.”

“Freya, we’re not your average family. I keep you as safe as I can, but with Fiona to look after now, I’m terrified I’ll miss something and let something slip.” Is that a sheen of tears in my brother’s gaze? I’ve only seen him tear up once, on his wedding day. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

I soften my tone. “I love you, Callum. And I don’t need you to protect me. We have an entire security team to protect our Glasgow Kings. It’s not only up to you.”

“I know, and they do protect this house, this family. It’s your work that scares me. No matter how hard I try—I can’t always get our men inside those courtrooms. You know that.”

“My work,” I say. “I don’t deny it’s a weak spot in our security.”

We’ve had this conversation many times, talking ourselves in circles trying to devise a solution. But I can’t give up law. Without Solicitor Freya, I wouldn’t know who I am or who I’d be.”

“I want you married. I want a man to protect you, care for you?—”

“No more. Not tonight. Please,” I plead. “It’s our party.” Every year, I throw this bash to bring the two halves of our lives together: our steadfast island family and boisterous Glasgow friends.

He heaves a sigh. “Aye. I know how much you love Samhain?—”

“All Hallows Eve,” I correct. “Aye. My love for the holiday runs deeper than the waters of Loch Morar.”

“I’ll shut my mouth.”

“Thank you, Callum. And don’t think I don’t know your worry comes from a place of love.”

He clears his throat. We Burnes don’t do emotions—conversation over. “Drink?” I ask, knowing we can agree on whisky.

“Yeah. I’m going to see if Fiona is ready. I’ll meet you at the bar in ten.”

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