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I raise a brow. “A man quickly running out of patience.”
He looks over his shoulder at his companions, who watch us with shell-shocked expressions. Our exchange is subtle enough to be unnoticed by the others in the bar, but depending on his reaction that may change. I doubt it, though. With a grunt, he tries to jerk his shoulder free again and this time I release him, straightening and stepping to the side as he stands.
“This place is shit anyways,” he grouses and fumbles with his wallet until he tosses a twenty onto the table. His friends hurry to do the same, and slide out of the booth, leaving it to me.
Satisfied with my view of Niamh’s table, I take a seat at the table, depositing my jacket on the emerald green leather seat and look towards the bar. It’s a simple pulse of power to get a server’s attention, the man dressed in all black looking over his shoulder to raise his brows at the dirty table and the new occupant. I nod when he gestures that he’ll be over in a moment, and I settle in, observing the crowd of humans in the same manner I’ve watched colorful birds in royal aviaries.
A busser comes to clear the table and the server is there a moment later for my drink order.
“Johnnie Walker, blue if you have it. Black, if not.”
My order surprises the man, but I wave him away because at that moment, my lovely quarry walks through the door, her driver at her back. Here, on the edge of a crowd much more boisterous and less pretentious, the reserved woman is more relaxed, her smile brighter and more genuine. Though she’s wearing a dress that costs more than what some of the people here make in a week, she does not look out of place. She holds a worn gray backpack in one hand and when she catches sight of Niamh, she waves and gestures towards the back corner where the bathrooms are and lifts the bag with intent before speaking over her shoulder.
The driver, a man in his late sixties named Simon who has been Wren’s personal driver for the entire time she’s lived in Newgate, nods and makes his way to a single open stool at the bar top. My brow narrows when the bartender begins to pour a pint of near black beer for the man. Is he seriously drinking on the job?
I shouldn’t care. In fact, if her driver becomes inebriated, it will give me an excuse to step in for him with Wren. Yet irritation grates its nails across my jaw at someone being careless with her. If she is going to be of any use to me, I need her safe and unharmed.
My gaze finds Wren moving through the crowd on the opposite side of the pub, completely ignorant to the appreciative looks sent her way. I clench my jaw, willing one of the men with lust in their eyes to touch her, to give me an excuse to break them apart.
Wren is mine. I decided it the moment I realized her father, the man I despise most in this world, covets her closely. I will take her away from him, ruin her in every way, use her to steal whatever joy and shred of happiness that man may have in his life before I end him. Just like he did to those soldiers, my friends. But not before I take that relic from him, the one that has kept him alive all these years, and watch as realization and fear fills those eyes of his.
I press my heel into the floor, eager to simply steal Wren away and have it done. It wouldn’t be satisfying enough that way, though. Not nearly enough.
The server arrives with my drink and I pass him my black card. “Leave it open,” I say as I curl my fingers around the glass of nearly thirty-year-old scotch whisky. The man, likely sensing the opportunity for a large tip, says nothing and quickly disappears. I bring the glass to my nose, indulging in the scents of smoky vanilla, honey and chocolate, and the bitter yet smooth heat of the alcohol through it all. Only after I catalog the different traits of the cask this single malt was aged in do I take my first drink.
Like a good woman, good whisky is meant to savor and linger over.
Setting the glass down, I move to the next phase of my impromptu advancement of my plan. Unbuttoning my sleeves, I roll the sleeves of my button-down halfway up along my forearms before removing my narrow black tie and opening the first two buttons at my neck. Quickly, I rake a hand through my hair, ruffling the white blond strands enough to add to my relaxed appearance. By the time I slouch back against the booth, I look as if I’ve been there for some time rather than less than ten minutes.
I’m in position with perfect timing as Wren exits the restroom, dressed now in high-waisted, wide-legged mint green slacks and a white tank top, her riotous pale red curls released from the confines of the chignon she’d tamed them in for the performance. She’d traded her short heels for flats, and even though her wardrobe cost more than what many here made, she blended seamlessly in with the crowd once more.
A true wren indeed, always trying to blend in to stay safely hidden away.
She drops the backpack off with Simon, who nods once, and she pats him on the back before finally joining her friend Niamh. Niamh stands with a happy squeal more suited to a woman a decade her junior and throws her arms around Wren’s slender shoulders in a tight hug. Wren tucks her hair behind both ears, moving to sit to the right of Niamh; as she is about to lower herself into the chair, she pauses, looking around until her gaze finds me.
Unlike her friend, I act as if I’m startled to be caught looking at her and offer a pleasant smile and tilt of the head in greeting. Her cheeks warm and she sits down quickly, making Niamh look over her shoulder at me quickly.
I take another sip of whisky, pleased. Tuning out the rest of the pub’s chatter, I focus on Wren’s ribbon-soft voice and Niamh’s smokier replies. It’s too early to approach Wren, but I’m a patient man.
After all, Rome wasn’t destroyed in a day.
Chapter Three
WREN
“I know I’ve said this before,” Niamh says before she pushes a stolen cheese-covered tater tot into her mouth. She quickly chews and swallows. “But your dad is a dick.”
I sigh with my entire body, resting most of my weight on my forearms on the only slightly sticky table we’re at, my now burger-less plate sitting towards the edge of the table. Fiddling with the empty straw wrapper. I don’t immediately defend him. Maybe when I was still a fresh, wide-eyed, naive child in college I would have. The truth is, my dad–Oberon Benoit, tech mogul and business genius–can be a dick. He was supposed to be at my string quartet’s chamber conference. I had checked out his calendars and seen he was free, so I’d held a flicker of hope he’d actually show.
I should be used to this enough by now that it shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. My father is the one who signed me up to learn the cello as a child and for years, he made every performance and it felt like I’d finally discovered what it took to make him proud.
My eyes drift over the noisy but good-natured crowd at our favorite pub. I want to blame the city. I want to say my dad only started to pull away after he opened his next headquarters here in Newgate when I graduated with my degree. It wouldn’t be true, though, and I’ve gotten pretty good at being honest with myself.
“You know what I think?” Niamh continues when I don’t answer, and I push off the table and slouch back in the wooden chair, raising a brow at the mischievous glint in her eyes.
“What?” I ask warily. Despite being so much older than me, I’m often the one preaching caution.
My father may be a dick and not show up to my performances when he says he will, but I have no doubt he treasures me and my safety. Niamh’s hazel eyes twinkle and she leans forward over her drink, some sort of boozy mixture of fruit syrups, clear soda, and vodka. Her pouty lips rest just above the straw, and her cheeks are approaching the same color as her drink.
