“Childish dreams.” I pitch my voice light despite the way my fingers itch to snatch it back.
“It’s not a dream is it’s happening,” he says, closing the sketchbook.
I make a derisive noise in return.
“You sell your own designs, ergo, you are a fashion designer,” he says, handing my sketchbook back.
This time, the noise I make is noncommittal. The truth is, the small line of clothing I’d designed for the House of Dalforth isn’t selling. At all. And being the practical sort, I know that childish dreams, like phases of selfishness, eventually have to end.
15
Van
“How was last night?” I ask as the call connects.
“No trouble, as expected,” Sergei, my right-hand man, answers in Russian. “Where are you?”
“Just leaving the jet.”
“I thought you were in Scotland until tomorrow?”
“I discovered I’m allergic to heather.”
Sergei laughs as I nod to the driver and slide into the back seat, locking out the gray London morning, the smell of leather, luxury, and money enveloping me. “More like you’ve fucked Heather and are now bored with her.”
“You know me so well.” On a surface level, at least. He doesn’t know Isla was at the castle, and I don’t feel like telling him. It’s fair to say Sergei isn’t her biggest fan, given what passed following our breakup. He’s usually sensible enough not to admit it in earshot but does suffer the occasional slip.
One of the benefits of being in my position is possessing the ability to do what I want when I want. Ordinarily. But that’s not why driving away from Kilblair Castle this morning felt so fucking galling. Last night, I got to do who I wanted—namely, Isla Dalforth, though want doesn’t cover the depth of feeling I have for her. With anyone else, last night would’ve been enough. I’d be content to see the castle grow smaller in the rearview mirror, happy for the distance between us. Between our bodies. Between the act of fucking. But I crave other intimacies with Isla. I always have. I want to sit by her side at breakfast, not stare at her over the table as some distant guest to her brother’s wedding.
I don’t want to be her secret fuck or the man who hurt her so many years ago.
Fuck, I just want her. I want the good and the bad. Her ire and her anger, I want her submission and the truth of the love I know she has locked away in her heart. I know she thinks I don’t deserve it, but I want to. I will.
Besides, when has being undeserving ever stopped me?
Except before. But that, I did for her.
Would I ever get to tell her the truth of it? Would I admit that every moment between then and now I’d been waiting for the time she’d leave her marriage—a marriage my actions were responsible for? A union that was my cross to bear from afar.
It’s a cross I’m still carrying. A weight I still bear.
But she will be mine. There is no other way.
I close my eyes and see her golden hair draping down her elegant back as she glances over her shoulder. Her mouth curls in a tiny, satisfied smile, her eyes full of secrets.
“For sure you want me to set up a meeting with that asshole Fedorov?” Sergei’s gruff voice brings me back to myself.
“Yes. Friday.”
“I can’t take care of it for you?”
“No, I need to see him face-to-face.” And in private.
Sergei clucks like an old woman. “It is not like you to get your hands dirty.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Sergei?”
“I do not understand.”
“Getting my hands dirty. Don’t tell me he makes you give him a hand job.”
“What!” he explodes angrily, making me feel lighter than I did a moment ago. “I like pussy. I am no f—”
“Ah, ah. We don’t deal in slurs.”
“You and your jokes,” he mutters. “Not so funny if one day you find bullet in back of your head.”
“That’s not going to happen. Everyone likes me.” More important than liking me, the people in this organization respect and fear me. They fear my reach, my connections. My wealth. They fear inciting my wrath. “And better the devil you know than the one who would replace me.” Cut off the snake’s head, and it would grow five more in its place. Chaos. Disorder. Volatility. No one wants that. Under me, everyone knows their place. They know what’s expected of them and they know what to expect if they step out of line.
The organization run much smoother under me. Perhaps my uncle would even agree, not that he’ll ever say so.
“What snake? Everything is big joke to you,” Sergei grumbles.
“Yes,” I agree, scrubbing my hand down my face. I must be desperate for a fucking laugh to spend time annoying this old bastard. “Just set up the meeting. And try not to excite yourself. At your age, it can’t be good for your blood pressure.”