Lord of London Town

“They knew my name,” I whispered, meeting Arthur’s eyes. His hand held me a fraction tighter at that information. I sucked in a stuttered breath. “They called me a spoilt Harlow cunt.” I swallowed back the bile that was clawing up my throat. “Arthur … they knew who I was. They knew I was a Harlow.” The fear I had felt from the attack increased tenfold at knowing I was targeted. That they had followed me to the alley. That they had been waiting for the right time to capture me. To hurt me. To take me …

Arthur stepped closer, so close I smelled the fresh water notes of his aftershave and the spice of what must have been his bodywash. “They won’t get you here,” he said, and I felt the truth of that statement wash over me like a refreshing summer rainfall. He nudged his chin toward the bathroom. “Get in the shower. Get the smell of those fuckers off your skin.”

At his curt attitude, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Before I did, I saw Arthur take his phone from his pocket and start calling people. I moved to the shower and turned it on. Steam filled the luxurious space, and I stripped off my dress, avoiding the mirror. When I was naked, I went to move under the spray, but I caught my reflection in my peripheral vision.

I had to see it. Had to see what those monsters had done to me. My stomach rolled—I had red welts from their grips, and my cheek was slightly swollen and sore from the strike to my face. But, bizarrely, what held my focus the most were the finger marks Ollie Lawson had left on my arm. A fissure of unease trickled down my spine as I thought of how he had changed in a second from the kind and attentive friend he had always been to the controlling and aggressive boy he’d morphed into at the club.

And he hated Arthur. Arthur who had just saved me.

My legs were weak as I entered the shower, the hot spray crashing down on my head like holy water piped in from Lourdes. Shock must have still had me in its grasp; my legs buckled and I hit the tiled floor.

Those men knew my name. They had come after me.

Who were they? What did they want with me?

Shivering, I tried to get to my feet, but my pathetic legs wouldn’t move, residual shock from the attack rendering them useless. The door to the bathroom suddenly slammed open, and there Arthur stood, backlit by the dim bedroom light, appearing like a fallen angel.

“I can’t get up,” I whispered, despising the tremble in my voice.

Arthur walked toward me. He didn’t look at my naked body once as he picked me up in his arms. “Have you cleaned yourself?” He looked at my half-damp hair and still-dirty skin and must have decided for himself that I hadn’t. He removed his glasses and put them on the side of the sink. I couldn’t take my eyes from his face, the unobstructed view of his deep blue eyes and long dark lashes.

As if I weighed nothing at all, he carried me under the spray. His white shirt and navy shorts became sodden, and his dark hair went from styled to the side to flat against his forehead. He looked so much younger this way. At times I forgot we were the same age. He always seemed so much older.

Arthur sat me on the stall’s ledge and reached for the shampoo on the corner shelf. He poured some into his hand and started washing my long dark hair. I winced when he brushed over a bruise that was forming on my scalp, where the attackers had yanked my hair back. Arthur’s hands stopped moving, and he exhaled a long, steady breath. He resumed washing my hair, but this time he was softer, more careful, so gentle in his touch and tenderness that tears welled in my eyes. As I tipped my head back, the tears spilled onto my cheeks, dripping down my neck and melding with the hot water.

I closed my eyes, to try and stop them, to not show any weakness in front of such a strong and formidable man. Arthur pulled away, clearly seeing my tears. I opened my eyes, and when I did, he was staring at me like he never had before. His steel eyes seemed softer somehow, sympathetic. His head tilted to the side, and he placed both hands on my face, careful of my hurt cheek.

With the touch of feather, he smudged the tears from my skin with his thumbs. I swallowed at the heaviness of the moment. The touch of his hands on my face was like a balm to my severed nerves, to the fear that was coursing so thickly in my veins that my entire body ached.