Lord of London Town

I took hold of her jaw and pulled her close to me. I kissed her mouth, sliding my tongue against hers. I wanted to sink inside her. Fuck her in front of the dying fire until she screamed my name.

Something had changed in me. When I’d woken up only twenty minutes ago, Cheska wrapped in my arms and walls fucking down, everything had shifted.

Nothing scared me. Death didn’t faze me. But Chelsea Girl, Cheska Harlow-Wright? She fucking terrified me. Because she’d got in. She’d hooked in her claws, and if she wanted to leave—or if she was taken away—there’d be no going back. I’d be fucking done. Destroyed.

Ruined.

I’d showered and brushed my teeth, trying to get the heaviness of the night from my body, the alcohol out of my system. But from the minute my eyes had opened, I’d needed to fucking leave. My gut twisted, telling me where I needed to go. The car was waiting and a van of soldiers were ready to follow us.

I pulled away from Cheska’s mouth. She searched my face. “I need you to come with me.”

“Where?” she asked but got to her feet. One hundred percent trust. She trusted me without fail. Heat spread through me at the realisation.

I picked up the blanket that I’d put over Cheska when I’d got up. Gripping her hand, I pulled her to my chest, needing her mouth again. I was fucking addicted. Always had been. But now, after tonight, it felt different. It felt like … more.

“You can sleep in the car,” I said, and she followed me from the room, still half asleep, her hand clutching mine. I had her trainers waiting for her at the door and wrapped the blanket around her as we stepped into the freezing night air. She pressed closer to my side as we ducked out of the rain and into the Bentley.

We pulled out onto the streets, practically deserted at this hour, and Cheska curled up against me. I could feel her watching me as I scanned for anyone watching us outside, trailing us. My men in the van, and the few I had in other less obvious cars, subtly following behind, would make sure nothing would go wrong.

Finally, seeing everything was all clear, I met her eyes. “Princess,” I said and pushed her hair back from her face. I needed to see that fucking perfect face at all times, unobstructed.

“Are you okay?” She swallowed nervously. “Are we okay?”

I dropped my forehead to hers, my chest tightening. Because I only had myself to blame. I’d fucked up. I’d been a selfish prick—had been for too many years. I’d been emotionless and cold for far too fucking long. But I was going to try with her. Chelsea Girl was the only one who could ever make me try lowering my guards. No one else. Just her. Always her.

Fucking forever her.

“We’re good,” I said against her mouth, hearing her exhale of relief. “More than.”

“We’re going to the Cotswolds?” she asked, reading my fucking mind. She knew me. She’d lost people. She knew what I was feeling right now. I nodded and kissed her head as she curled against me. I thought she’d sleep. But she stayed wide awake as we travelled the couple of hours it took to get to my mum’s favourite part of the English countryside.

Cheska took my hand, holding me tighter when my body tensed as we drew close to the cottage, and familiar narrow, winding country lanes came into view. The trees created tunnels around us, their branches bare, ice sticking to the bark.

It was still dark as we arrived. I wanted to be back at the church by mid-morning. I wanted the fucking witch hunt to begin immediately. I wanted these cunts, these circle-branded cunts, to be found.

But I needed this moment of calm before the storm.

Cheska sat up and turned my head to her. “I’m with you.” I nodded, then let her kiss me. Let her clutch my hand as the driver drove up a private dirt road. I glanced out the window. The Tudor cottage with dormer windows should have been visible over the bushes. But there was nothing, just a mass of stars in the sky above the quiet village, and crows circling up ahead, like they knew murders had taken place here. Like they knew a fucking crime against my family had been carried out and I was here to see the ghost of the reaper who’d collected them.

The Bentley stopped, and Cheska searched outside the window. Wings beat in my stomach, great fucking wings that belonged to a condor or some shit. I saw my men flood the property, guns and knives drawn, checking it was clear. Jim, the head of this regiment, nodded at me as he came back from the shelter of trees.