Page 5 of Cruel Pawn
“I donotlike him,” I snarled, stalking over to where I’d rested my phone on the arm of the deep plum wing-back chair. I usually sat in it and contemplated the best way to get the job done, with minimal mess and no way to track it back to me. This time I’d sat it in and glared at the sparse wall. Maybe I needed to worm my way into the lives of people Ididknow about—the Marshall sons, their twin sisters, or maybe Damien’s new wife Vasilisa. Surely a young woman newly married into such an overwhelming family would like a friend?
I nodded at the wall as if we’d had a deep conversation, and slammed my thumb into the end call button, silencing Silvio as he poised to launch into a,it’s normal to have feelingslecture. Normal for other people, sure, but I’d been raised to strive for perfection in exams, in piano, in gymnastics, and I wasn’t about to strive for less as a contract killer. Perfect killers didn’t havefeelings.
Perfect killers didn’t have pets either, but I’d spent the whole damn day orchestrating a cat, researching all their quirks,finding the right one—an ageing ginger cat in a local shelter, who’d been unwanted for months because he had so many ailments. His name on the website said Mr. Marmalade, but for the purposes of this con, he’d be a suitable Mango. He didn’t need surgery, but that was nothing a well-placed bribe to a vet and struggling mother of two wouldn’t fix.
I wasn’t going to force the poor cat to get surgery—I wasn’tthatmuch of a monster. But Arden didn’t need to see a scalpel meet fur to buy my ploy, and I’d already had Mango dropped off at Briar Bridge Veterinary Practice. Just in case I needed solid proof for my alibi.
So, the con was on, and I’d prepped everything I could. It was time to put stage two in place.
I dropped into the leather chair because it was tempting to pace, and opened my phonebook. Huh. There was no Arden under A. My brow furrowed. I had so few contacts that it wasn’t hard to find him. Silvio, Grandfather, and—
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I hissed, staring at the unfamiliar contact. He’d added himself to my contacts as Future Husband. With a pink, beating heart emoji.
“Well,” I muttered, “we’ve solved the question of which of the three he is. Clinically fucking insane.”
But I rearranged my face into something shy and pleasant, and hit call anyway.
Five minutes later, we had a date set up.
4
Arden
There was a tiny chance I’d spent the last forty-eight hours obsessing over Carmen. Nothing too major. I didn’t stand outside her apartment watching her, even though it only took me an hour to find out where she lived. Instead, I scrolled all the way through her Instagram feed, following her with my secret account, and tracked down her Facebook, LinkedIn, and even a TikTok she used to follow cat influencers but hadn’t posted anything of her own.
I had to admit, I was a little disappointed there was only a single photo of Mango shared a year ago on her Instagram. He was cute, a little grizzled and glaring in that way old cats were, nothing like the account I had for Aegi. Not that anyone technicallyknewI shared photos and videos of her there, or that she had half a million followers. I’d have to nag Carmen to show me her camera roll instead. But that thought led to whatelseI might find on her camera roll, and I got distracted thinkingabout her in sexy lingerie when I should have been paying attention.
I’d sent a car to pick her up half an hour ago, and she was due any minute now. I knew because I had an app open on my phone and a little red dot showed her location getting closer, closer, just one street away now.
I cleared my throat and shifted my weight. I was already thinking of excuses to touch her again, to feel the silken slide of her hair through my fingers. Maybe I could brush an eyelash off her cheek for an excuse to glide my fingertips across that impossibly soft skin. Maybe she’d let me pull her close again, feel her body mould so perfectly to mine, the ideal height for me to tuck her head under my chin, my arms settling just right around her waist.
A gust of wind hit my face, tossing black hair off my forehead, and I ground my teeth together as I tried to recover the strands. I spent twenty fucking minutes on FaceTime with Cameo to get my hair into this precise, debonair look. Different from my usual slicked back style, under my friend’s sharp, snarky tutelage I’d styled the strands so they swept to either side of my forehead with enough volume at the roots to keep the ends out of my eyes.
There,Cameo said when I gave her a final look, her wicked face softened for once. Probably because I was nervous as fuck. She was my cousin like Stefan and the rest of the Marshall circus. My mum, Cameo’s mum, and the Marshalls’ mum were all sisters. Not that I could call the woman who birthed me much of a mother. More of a venomous snake.You look like a K-drama actor. The bad guy who holds the female lead captive in a dingy warehouse, so the male lead has to burst in and save her.
I’d rolled my eyes, but maybe she was right. Maybe there was always something about me that made people cross the street to avoid passing me. Maybe all it took was that single look toknow something was wrong inside me. Would Carmen get out of the car and see it? We’d only briefly met that day in Weasel Bean, and she’d been so stressed over Mango’s surgery that she probably missed the signs. But she would be paying attention now. What if she—
Oh, fuck, the car was here. I straightened, fiddling with the cufflinks on my white shirt. It was my finest, most expensive shirt; I wanted to make a good impression. But now I worried I’d built this date up too much in my head, put too much importance on it, put too much pressure on myself. The wind struck me again, not at all helped by the red double-decker groaning its way down Euston Road where I stood. I glared at it, then realised Carmen could probably see me from inside the car and wiped the expression from my face.
I was already fucking this up and she hadn’t even stepped out of the car. She’d change her mind about this date, about me. People always did the second they saw who I really was.
I slipped my phone into my pocket when the door of the black Range Rover opened, a long, caramel leg extending from the shadows within before a black velvet heel hit the pavement like a declaration, a battle I would instantly surrender to. I followed that black velvet all the way up her calf to her thigh and bit back a groan when she flowed out of the car like dark, glossy liquid. Like blood. The boots ended at her mid-thigh. I couldn’t see the left one beneath the dark scarlet ruffles of her dress but on the right, the slit of her dress climbed all the way to her hip, baring a diabolical expanse of creamy skin above where her boots ended.
She was trying to kill me.
Dark red fabric lovingly hugged the divine curve of her stomach, the slope of her ribs, and wrapped like heaven around her breasts. I’d never been so jealous of fabric in my life. I wanted my hands on her hips, right where they flared,beggingfor my touch. I had to physically drag my stare higher, over the glossy waves of her black hair to that sweet face. She could break my heart with a single smile, and I’d let her. She could kill me with that glitter in her brown eyes, and I would thank her for sweet death.
“Hi,” she said, disarmingly shy. She looked like a goddess, like a fucking angel. I didn’t think she could be more beautiful than the last time I saw her—or any of the photos I’d stolen and saved to my phone—but there was something about the sharp black that lined her eyes, the subtle colour on her cheekbones, the way the light hit the dip above her upper lip, drawing my attention to the soft blush on her bottom lip. I wanted to kiss her. Right the hell now. How was she so cute, so shy?
I cleared my throat and said, “You look unreal, Carmen.”
She blinked, like my compliment had taken her off guard. A slow smile curled up the right side of her mouth, that crooked smile a tiny fraction of wickedness in all her sweetness, and I wanted to groan. “Good unreal?”
“Verygood unreal,” I confirmed. I cleared my throat when it came out husky.
“I wasn’t sure what to wear,” she admitted, stepping closer to me as the driver pulled out the Range Rover and blended into the chaotic traffic. If I had my way we’d be surrounded by idyllic peace with only birdsong and Carmen’s laughter interrupting the quiet, but it was a little difficult to pick up a whole library—a world renowned library at that—and transplant it somewhere else, even for me. “You said to wear something nice, but you didn’t say if it should be fancy.” She glanced behind me, over the red-brick wall towards the British Library. Even at this time of night, it would normally be swarming with students and visitors, but a hush hung over the building. “Are you sure we’re not overdressed?”
“Darling, looking as good as that, you could never be overdressed for anything.” I caught her hand because I physically could not help myself and skimmed my lips over her knuckles. A rush of her perfume hit me, and my dick took that moment to harden. I willed it down with thoughts of every vile thing I could think of—maggots, forty-year-old underwear, body odour—but the scent clung to my nose, sultry and floral.
