by Luis, Maria
Doesn’t he want to cover that scar? Maybe he likes it, the way it stops people dead in their tracks and makes them nervously avert their eyes. Maybe he even finds a certain thrill in their fear. It seems impossible that he might be a man who cowers with insecurities himself—
Not when he storms over to Jack, the server, arrogance lining every stride.
Not when they jump into conversation about an order that was late on delivery, and I sit in my chair, wondering if I’m about to make a massive mistake.
Not when Jack says something under his breath, waving an arm in my direction, and I learn firsthand how the scarred man feels about a stranger seeing him for the very first time.
The palest green eyes I’ve ever encountered fixate on me. Fixate, and don’t waver, as though that one glance has gifted him the opportunity to bare my soul and steal every last one of my secrets. Including those I plan to keep buried. A harsh breath billows over my lips as I struggle to hold my ground.
At my old job, I came across men like him frequently. Not savage men, not men with faces that could terrify small children and send full grown adults scrambling. But men who felt the need to assert their dominance, no matter the battlefield. Even Stephen, for all his public support of women, never missed the chance to remind me that he’d chosen me and not the other way around.
The only thing I miss about my ex is his eight-inch cock and even that’s forgettable. A big knob means nothing if its owner is pure shite in the bedroom.
With smooth, controlled movements, I set the folder down on the table. Then lift my chin, boldly meeting those pale eyes once more. In the center, near his pupils, the green becomes a tawny yellow, a color so unique that I feel uneasy just being under their unrelenting stare.
Devil eyes. Soulless eyes.
“Are you Mr. Priest?” I ask, sweeping my attention up to his dark hair. Despite scouring The Bell & Hand’s website for information about its owners, the About Us section was dreadfully dull beyond the basics. Dates of upcoming events. An award won here and there. A mission statement that preached the belief in an establishment that welcomes all patrons, so long as their favorite whisky is Scottish and not Irish. A joke, I suppose, but not one that does much in the way of giving up this man’s secrets.
And nothing to help differentiate the three brothers from each other aside from their names.
Guy. Saxon. Damien.
I study the man before me, refusing to quiver under his hard stare, despite the nervous fluttering in my belly, and take a wild guess that he’s the middle brother.
Saxon the Savage—it has an appropriate ring to it.
The man’s scarred lip curls. “Who’s asking?” he bites out, dismissing Jack as he faces me fully. Lord, he seems even bigger now that he’s within touching distance. He’s dressed casually in dark-washed jeans and a ribbed, black jumper that matches the hue of his hair and does little to conceal the wide breadth of his shoulders.
Jack clears his throat. “She’s wanting a job. I told her that we aren’t hirin’.” He swivels his head to scowl at me. “Which we ain’t. Hirin’, that is.”
The man steps forward and, helpful as always, I hook my foot around the leg of a nearby chair and shove it back. “Feel free to take a seat,” I say, going for humor-laden friendliness. All the better to butter him up. I need this job—no other will do.
Desperation at its finest.
Green eyes narrow imperceptibly in my direction. “I own every chair in this pub, including yours.” It’s said without inflection, and he gives me no time to think of a comeback before he grabs the chair by its back and drags it so close to mine that the wood grazes my knees. The feet clatter loudly against the floor when he roughly sets it down, and then he’s sitting—collapsing, really—and holding my ground becomes that much harder.
Savage no longer cuts it.
He is . . . he is terrifying.
My fingers curl helplessly around the edge of my folder. Don’t let him see how unnerved you are! Maybe if he weren’t only centimeters away, with his muscular thighs straddling mine, I would feel ten times more confident about putting him in his place. As it is, it takes every ounce of fortitude to lamely quip, “So you are one of the Priest brothers?” I should have looked harder for pictures of them online, done more research, but other than those few mentions in the articles I found, the Priest men might as well be ghosts. They exist nowhere and everywhere, all at once. “Saxon?” I test, hoping I’m right.
He leans forward, his inner thighs scraping my bare leg, where my skirt has ridden up to just north of my knees, and then swipes the folder from under my hand. “We’re all out of openings,” he murmurs instead of answering my question. His black hair creeps over his forehead as he skims my CV. “Although I’ll be disappointed to pass over such . . . outstanding references.”
The patronizing note in his voice sets my teeth on edge. “I’m more than capable of serving food, Mr. Priest.” I feel my nostrils flare as I stare him down. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to get a plate from Point A to Point B.”
He keeps his focus locked on the sheet of paper when he drawls, “No, Miss”—his finger traces my name—“Quinn, you’re right. It doesn’t.”
“Then I ought to be a shoo-in. I’ve worked in some form of customer service for my entire life.”
“If that’s the case,” he says, once more fixing that unholy stare on my face, “then hearing the word No shouldn’t be out of the norm.”
My entire body stiffens. “On the contrary. When someone like me does their job to perfection, all I hear is Yes and Let’s have more of that, please.”
The words fly from my mouth before I can regulate them—or even consider how they might be interpreted—sexual, aggressively forward—and my cheeks instantly heat like I’ve baked under the sun for hours, naked. This is a nightmare, an absolute, bloody nightmare.
“That isn’t—that’s not at all what I—”
Saxon Priest is clearly no gentleman. Instead of allowing me to wallow in my own embarrassment, in solitude, mind you, he ends my stammering with a raised brow. “The Bell & Hand isn’t that kind of establishment, Miss Quinn.”
He hasn’t just—
He didn’t just imply that I’m a . . . that I’m a—
“For that sort of work, I suggest King’s Cross instead.”
My eyes go wide.
What. A. Wanker.
Not that it matters, but I haven’t shagged anyone since Stephen. The prized land between the valleys is experiencing a years’ long drought, if you will. And even if that weren’t the case, I would never consider sleeping with a man for money.
Although money is exactly what I need right now, and it’s the only reason I’m still sitting here and not introducing him to my swinging fist.
Gritting my teeth, so hard that I swear I can hear my molars grinding to dust, I purse my lips into a tight smile. “A miscommunication. I’m here to apply for a front-of-the-house position. I can clean tables, refill drinks, that sort of thing.”
Shifting his weight back, he reclines like an animal, predatory down to its marrow but content to watch its prey feel the anxiety of the hunt. One muscular forearm rests on the table; one long leg stretches out past mine. Having effectively blocked me in, his mouth—scarred and all—curves upward. It’s wicked and uneven and lacks all signs of warmth.
A foreboding shiver streaks down my spine, even as I bite back my pride and allow myself to beg. For the sake of my siblings. For the sake of my long-term goals. For the sake of survival.
“Hire me,” I whisper. “Please.”
“Apologies, Miss Quinn, but the answer’s still no.”
Tossing my CV on the table, he makes a move to stand. And this time it’s despair that kicks my arse into gear. I jerk out my right leg, cutting off his upward momentum by kicking him in the soft flesh of the back of his closest knee.
“Fuck—”
His weight destabilizes, big hands clutching and releasing the a
ir as he fights for purchase. I sweep his chair forward, hooking my toes around the wooden leg, then plant my hand against his stone-hard thigh—and push.
With his balance already unstable, he topples backward, once more collapsing in the seat.
Raw, undiluted fury flares in his expression. In a voice pitched so low that I can barely hear it over the other customers in the pub, he growls, “Get. Out.”
Stand your ground.
You need this.
He called you a prostitute!
Swallowing a healthy dose of unease, I shake my head. “I cannot.”
Those pale eyes of his empty of any and all patience—not that he had much to begin with. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t toss you out on your ass.”
It’s now or never.
This moment is five years in the making. Five years of putting myself directly in the fire and stoking the flames. Five years of planning and doing everything in my power to prove that my parents didn’t die in vain.
That my siblings will live in an England—in a world—where a king or a queen can’t cause chaos with a flippant flick of the wrist.
The man seated across from me may look savage but looks can deceive. Souls . . . souls can’t, and mine was lost to a riot that tore my family to shreds. I can only hope that somewhere, deep inside, his humanity outguns his frigid personality.
There’s one item missing from my CV.
One achievement that can never be listed.
I’m Isla Quinn, and I killed the king.
For my siblings.
For my country.
And for vengeance.
“Time’s running out, Miss Quinn.”
Leaning forward, I smile at the scarred man seated opposite me. I need him, and though he doesn’t realize it yet, he needs me too. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Priest, and I think it’d be in your best interest to hear me out.”
3
Saxon
In my world, Isla Quinns are a dime a dozen.
Women—and men—who think they can hack it in London’s underground and offer something crucial to the anti-loyalist cause. Oh, they do their best to rise to the occasion, I’ll give them that. They stand side by side with the other protesters, hoisting posters high above their heads with slogans like, Death to the Monarchy! or Long Live Democracy!
But then trouble—as it always does—snakes its way in. Shackles clank around wrists. A friend finds himself sprawled on the ground, trampled by the crowd. A semi-automatic goes off—something no civilian ought to have in the first place—and you look down to find that your fingers come away with blood after touching the growing, sudden ache in your chest.
Boom.
Where dissent goes, trouble always follows.
And Holyrood creeps in afterward, snipping the lifelines of those who would do more than just shout about the injustices of a British monarchy.
I look at Isla Quinn now, and in her blue eyes I see that same misguided belief that she has what it takes to make a difference.
She doesn’t.
No one does.
If, for no other reason than because Holyrood won’t allow it.
Savior. Devil.
I suppose, depending on your stance, we play both sides of the fence—and we do it to perfection.
Except for the king’s assassination.
My chest grows tight, and I’m not sure if it’s because Isla is studying me like I might pounce and tear her apart, limb from limb, like some savage beast, or if it’s the ever-present awareness that I failed. We failed.
With finality, I shut down those thoughts.
Cracking my knuckles, I slide my ass to the edge of the chair so I’m centimeters from her. Strawberry-blond hair touches her collarbone and frames her face in soft waves. Freckles mar her skin, heavily concentrated on the bridge of her nose. In that prim skirt and blazer set she’s wearing, she looks like a teacher hell-bent on correcting a student’s errant ways. Otherwise innocent and naïve, but that husky voice of hers . . . the way she maneuvered my much larger frame, tells me that Isla Quinn is harboring secrets of her own.
Doesn’t mean she’s not unnerved, though.
Go ahead, I want to taunt when her blue eyes bounce from my face to my chest and then back up again, show me how you really feel. Any moment now, she’ll start squirming. They all do. I know what I look like, and this isn’t the first time—nor the last—that I’ll use my face as a method in getting people to fuck off.
We’re locked in a silent standoff. No words. No movement.
Until her full lips part and she utters for a second time, “Hire me.”
My palm flattens on the table as I lean forward, close enough that I note the way she draws her shoulders together like she’s facing off against the enemy. How ironically accurate. “I’m not interested in your propositions, Miss Quinn.”
“Will you listen to what—”
“You have nothing that I want.”
Long lashes flutter as she blinks back at me once, twice, thrice. And then, just when I think she’s about to accept defeat, her pert chin thrusts forward and she jabs a finger into my chest. “You don’t even know what I’m offering, what I’m willing to bring to the table.”
I catch her finger, then slip my hand around her wrist before she can issue protest. She’s dainty, small-boned despite being relatively tall for a woman, and I use my hold to yank her into me. By her ear, I hiss, “Listen to me carefully, Miss Quinn, because I’m going to say this only once: you’re out of your league.”
Pulling at her caged hand, her mouth grazes my cheek. Furiously, she whispers, “That’s your opinion, which you’re absolutely entitled to. But you don’t know me from Adam. I’m more than capable of handling myself.”
Maybe, but unlikely.
I’ve heard this same story a million times over since we opened The Bell & Hand. Isla Quinn isn’t the first to show up here with so-called propositions that we can’t live without. No, she’s only the first to pretend that she’s hoping to make a career out of serving tables before dropping the tall act and revealing her true motives.
“I don’t know what you thought you might get out of coming here but I’m no pillock. You’re wanting more than a job, and I hate to break it to you, but we aren’t recruiting for anything else.” I release her sharply then shove back my chair and climb to my feet. “You want to throw your hat into the ring? I suggest volunteering at a local charity, for the kids who’ve lost their parents after the last riot.”
I barely make it two steps before her voice has my knees locking tight: “Who do you suppose those kids grow up to become, Mr. Priest? Perfect, law-abiding citizens? Adults who meekly accept their lot in life, despite the fact that it’s been ripped to shreds, so much so that it’s barely recognizable?”
Body frozen in place, my gaze locks on Jack, who watches us with sharp eyes while he collects dirty plates from a table. The man’s been with The Bell & Hand almost since the day we opened. Reformed bank thief. Crude around the edges but unrivaled when under pressure. Absolutely, wholly, despises the Crown.
Maybe it makes me a fool but I’m the one who’s kept Jack out of prison over the years. Me, not Guy or Damien. Me. And perhaps that’s my Achilles heel—forging connections with people who hate the monarchy, who hate King John, the way I did.
The way I do, even now.
Even still.
Duty is not voluntary. And, sometimes, loyalty isn’t a gift but a threat. A persistent, barely concealed warning to exist within the structured lines before you find yourself permanently disciplined. Just like Pa.
Voice gruff, I edge out, “You have ten seconds to make your point, Miss Quinn.”
Her chair scrapes back, the sound echoing loudly in my ears. “My siblings are just like those children that the charities support. Twelve and thirteen when my parents were murdered in the Westminster Riots. You don’t recover from something like that . . . I can’t recover from something like that.”
Slender, feminine fingers graze my forearm, and I immediately step out of reach. “Five seconds,” I grunt, as I turn to face her. “Four, now.”
Luminous blue eyes retrace their path up my chest, to my neck, and then, finally, to my face. If she’s terrified, she doesn’t show it. Instead she only frames her hips with her hands. “I can’t go back to the way things were, which means I can’t work in a position with people who don’t understand me, what I’ve gone through, what I’ve survived. They report the news, but their lives are otherwise untouched. Pristine. Working here—knowing what The Bell & Hand stands for—is what I need to keep going.”
My molars grind together. “We don’t take on charity.”
“Trust me, I’m not looking for hand-outs. I’m only wanting to make a difference—to find a place where I belong.”
I almost laugh.
If only Isla Quinn knew that the queen was here, less than an hour ago. How’s that for belonging? I wear deception like a monk does his robes. And because I do, I only smile, slow, dangerous and—there we go.
The fear.
It widens her gaze. It straightens her spine. And though she tries hard to hide her visceral response, fear hastens her breathing too. Her own body has betrayed her.
“If you know what’s good for you,” I murmur, my voice pitched low, “you’ll leave, and you won’t come back.”
She audibly swallows. “I’m not scared of you.”
I meet her blue gaze. “You should be.”
“Mr. Priest—”
“We don’t have a position for you, and whatever your proposition is, I’d advise keeping it to yourself—unless you want your siblings to find themselves without their older sister, too.”
Her mouth falls open. “Are you threatening me?”
