by Tillie Cole
I rolled my eyes at Arabella’s dramatic words. “You’ve been watching too many crime documentaries. Your imagination is running away with you.”
“If you think Arthur Adley doesn’t belong on those documentaries, as the bad guy, then you belong in Broadmoor loony bin,” Freya said. “No one, in all of Europe, has anything on the Adleys. They’re criminals of the worst kind—untouchable. You need to keep away. You wouldn’t last a day in his world.”
“And you have Hugo,” Arabella said. “You’ve been with him for years. His father worked with yours before he died. Now he’s cared for by your old man, he’ll always be with you. You know you’ll marry him just like your daddy wants. And he adores you.”
My stomach sank when I thought of Hugo. I loved Hugo—he was sweet and kind and I knew he would be loyal to me. But I didn’t burn for him. Nothing he did set me alight. But Arabella was right. My daddy wanted us to marry—no, he expected us to marry. He never entertained anything else.
“Speaking of …” Freya nodded in the direction of the living quarters. Hugo and Percy—his best friend—came toward us. Hugo leaned down and pressed a kiss to my lips. It was soft and gentle and loving. I knew, in my gut, that Arthur kissed nothing like that. His kiss would be savage and all-encompassing.
“I’ll be back in a few days.” Hugo looked across at the Adleys, a hint of worry in his stare. When I followed his gaze, Arthur hadn’t even acknowledged Hugo; he was still looking directly at me. “What the fuck is he looking at?” Hugo said. But it wasn’t loud enough for Arthur or his friends to hear. Hugo wouldn’t dare take them on.
“Barcelona?” Freya asked Hugo, distracting him. Hugo turned to her.
“Yeah. George asked me to close a deal there while we were here. When we get back, we’ll take the yacht to Ibiza, yeah?”
“Sounds good,” I said. Percy and Hugo left the yacht and took a car toward the airport. Hugo had been working alongside my dad for a couple of years now, during holidays while he finished up sixth form at his boarding school. This summer he started full time. He didn’t need university or a degree. He was primed to follow in my father’s footsteps in the company—qualifications meant nothing when nepotism was a factor. Hugo was a good man. I knew that. He was the son my father never had.
My father loved me. But I wasn’t a son. He’d always wanted a son. His relationship with Hugo was arguably better than his with me.
My eyes drifted to Arthur again, only to see him heading inside the yacht. My eyes were fixed on his tattoo of London on his stomach and chest. He was muscled and toned, but not overly bulky.
He was a living, breathing cocktail of deadly sins.
“Come on,” Arabella said. “We’re meeting Ollie and everyone tonight for dinner.” She laughed and shook her head. “We can watch him moon all over you with Hugo not being there. It’s tragic.”
I grimaced. I liked Ollie, but not in a romantic way. He clearly liked me, though, and when Hugo wasn’t around made no bones about it. Hugo and Ollie had attended sixth form together. It was how we all became friends.
Freya threaded her arm through mine. “Come on, Cheska. Let’s have a good night. It’ll help you forget the devil on the neighbouring boat.”
Devil. That seemed a good title for Arthur. Most people were terrified of him. He was unapproachable, with eyes that could cut you where you stood. And he had the allure of Satan too. A magnet to sin and temptation, stirring wants and desires inside of me that were anything but chaste and holy. And if the rumours were true, he had the evilness of the dark lord too.
We entered the club, Ollie placing a hand on my back as he led us through the packed dancefloor to the VIP section. We sat at our roped-off table, and the waiter brought us bottles of Cristal, Grey Goose, gin and a ton of mixers.
“What can I get you, sweetheart?” Ollie asked.
“Gin,” I said and immediately thought of Arthur. Ollie poured me the gin and automatically added tonic.
“So?” he asked. “Did you enjoy dinner?” He leaned in close and ran the tip of his finger down my arm. I shifted in my seat, backing away, hoping he didn’t get offended.
“It was nice.” I gave him a friendly, hopefully platonic smile. “Hugo would have loved it. It’s a shame he couldn’t be here.”
The grin on Ollie’s face fell so hard I was sure it hit the floor beneath us with a deafening thud. He took a long drink of his vodka, then turned to me and said, “He’s not good enough for you.”
I tensed, blinking in shock at Ollie being so forthcoming. He usually danced around his dislike for Hugo. There was no tiptoeing around this one.
“Ollie,” I warned. “Don’t. You’re my friend. Hugo is my boyfriend. I won’t do this with you.”
Something akin to darkness appeared in Ollie’s eyes. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck pricked. It seemed to take Ollie a second to pull himself together before he smiled again. “Forgive me,” he said, but his words seemed forced and rigid. “You’re right. I shouldn’t speak about him that way. He’s okay, really.” Ollie checked something on his phone and let his eyes drift over the club. He suddenly froze. “Twats.”
I instinctively followed his gaze. It landed on a couple of the Adley boys, who were at the opposite side of the VIP section in a high-walled private booth. I recognised Charlie as he got up from his seat to let Eric Mason out. Charlie’s eyes fell on us. He turned and said something to someone in the booth. My heart slammed in my chest as I wondered if Arthur was in there. If he had another girl on his lap, sucking on his neck, his fingers deep inside her.
“Nick,” Ollie said, pulling his best friend’s attention away from Freya. Ollie nodded in the direction of the Adleys. Nick followed his gaze, then nodded, some unspoken conversation I wasn’t privy to happening between them.
“You don’t like the Adleys?” I asked.
Ollie sat back in his chair and moved his arm around the back of mine. “No.” I didn’t think he would expand on that, as his eyes narrowed and he drank his vodka, but then he said, “I don’t particularly like East End cunts like his scumbag family. They cause my dad’s business no end of problems. They think they’re entitled to run all the docks in London just because of who they are. They’re a cancer to honest enterprises. I’ve only had to deal with Arthur a few times. And that’s a few times too many.” His hand froze in mid-air as he lowered his drink. “Why? You don’t know the Adleys, do you?”
I shook my head, the lie rolling off my tongue. “No. Just heard of them like everyone else has.” I felt Arabella’s eyes boring into me from across the table but didn’t look her way for fear Ollie would see through my deceit.
Ollie exhaled a long breath. “Good.” His hand wrapped around my bicep. “Don’t fuck with them,” he said, his voice deep and brooking no argument. Unease rolled through me like a thunderstorm. I tried to move my arm, but Ollie’s eyes only darkened and his grip grew harder. “I mean it, Cheska. Don’t get involved with the Adleys. Especially Arthur. He’s not right in the head.”
Ollie finally released his grip. My arm throbbed, and even in the dimly lit nightclub, I could see the red marks from his fingers. I was in no doubt that they would bruise.
My eyes widened in shock. Ollie quickly plastered on a soft smile. I flinched as he gently rubbed his hand over my bruising skin. “I just don’t want you getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, Cheska.” His voice was like silk, but underneath that silk I now knew hid jagged, sharp blades. “I care for you.” Ice ran down my spine as he leaned closer. “You know that, don’t you?” He moved my dark hair from my shoulder. “I like you … a lot.”
I jumped to my feet. “I’m going to the bathroom.” I didn’t turn to see if anyone was following. I rushed through the door and headed straight for the mirrors. I stared at my reflection. My breathing was heavy with shock. Ollie … Ollie Lawson had hurt me. I stared at the red marks on my skin.
What the hell had just happened?
I needed a cigarette. I rarely s
moked, but right now, I needed the smell and taste to calm me down. Leaving the bathroom, I snuck out of the fire door that led to a secluded alleyway. Reaching into my clutch, I pulled out my cigarettes and lighter. I took in a long inhale, letting the nicotine flood my lungs and calm my frayed nerves.
I had barely taken my second drag when the sound of footsteps came from the end of the alley. Something squeezed in my gut, propelling me to push off the wall I was leaning against. My heart kicked into a sprint, and I rushed toward the fire door. I had barely made it three steps before four men moved out of the darkness. My throat tightened in panic, my lungs ceasing to breathe. Hand shaking, I dived for the door handle, but just as I did, the men rushed at me.
My scream was lost to the blockage in my throat, and I was slammed against the wall, a hand slicing across my face. I tried to think, tried to formulate a plan to get away from these men, but my brain wouldn’t work. My cheek throbbed and my head ached and I couldn’t form any coherent thoughts.
Anxiety welled inside of me like quicksand, swallowing me whole, dousing me in pure terror. You always heard of people being attacked, always assumed that if it was you it ever happened to, you could get away. You would fight, resist and be able to escape. But I was paralysed by fear—muscles locked and eyes wide as I tasted blood in my mouth, my vision blurring as I tried to focus on my attackers.
My ears rang like St Paul’s Cathedral’s bells, deafening me, closing down my senses. I tried to gasp for breath, for a way to calm my racing heart. But dizziness consumed me. I blinked, managing to focus enough to see a tall man move before me and wrap his hand around my throat. He had acne scars on his face and a deep red scar through his left black eyebrow. Finding a morsel of fight within me, I silently cried out and pushed at his chest.
But he stood stoic. Unmoving. Then he used his grip on my neck to slam me back against the wall. White-hot pain sliced through my shoulders. Then I froze entirely, pushing through the panic and mental fog to realise his free hand was lifting up the hem of my dress.
I acted on instinct, panic stepping aside to allow determination through. “Stop!” I slammed my hands harder against his chest. A granite boulder disguised as a fist rammed into my stomach, knocking the wind from me. I gasped for breath, legs buckling, just as another man lifted my head by my hair to keep me upright.
No, no. no … please … !
I tried to scream aloud at the fiery pain ripping through my scalp, but a hand smothered my mouth before any noise could escape my lips. I thrashed as I bit down on the fingers, but it was no use. Nothing was working—I couldn’t fight them off. I couldn’t fight them off!
Think, think, think!
But I couldn’t. Everything was happening too fast. They were too strong, too many of them. I was turned and rammed against the wall. A man moved behind me, pushing my dress up to my waist. Even through my thick head-fog, I heard the telltale sound of a zip being pulled down.
My turbulent panic and hopeless flailing grew to a sudden stop. Like all the oxygen within me had been sucked into a vacuum, rendering me still. Time slowed to half speed, the air around me grew stagnant and heavy, and the looming presence of the man behind me pressed down on me like a quilt of smothering darkness.
My pulse thundered in my ears like a drum-heavy soundtrack ominously counting down to his assault. I managed to move my head a fraction, the rough brick of the wall scraping against my cheek. That was all it took to rip through my paralysis. The clay of the brick gouged into my cheek, jerking my body and mind into motion.
I bit down harder on the hand over my mouth, sinking my teeth into flesh as hard as I could. “You fucking bitch!” the man behind me snarled, yanking his hand away. I took advantage of the moment and stole a much-needed long breath, sucking in the humid, salty Spanish air.
I needed to keep breathing. I just needed to keep breathing. I needed to keep moving, to keep slipping from their grips.
“Stop!” I uselessly begged, trying to kick out my legs, my arms, anything to get them off me. “I said STOP!” I threw back my head, managing to butt the nose of the man behind me. The crunch of broken bone ricocheted off the walls of the alley.
“Fucking spoilt Harlow cunt!” a voice hissed, and two hands wrapped around my throat from behind, cutting off my breath again. His hold was harder this time. I’d pissed him off.
The sticky air kissed my naked behind, my dress still rolled up to my waist, baring me to their eyes. Black spots danced in my vision as the man pushed his fingers against my trachea. I thrashed harder and harder with as much strength as I could muster. But as his grip only grew harsher, I knew this was it. My chances of escape were waning along with my ability to breathe.
As I danced on the verge of consciousness, my arms were forced to either side of me, as if I were bound to a cross. Unyielding hands held me still, but the hands around my neck loosened enough for me to siphon a breath down my burning windpipe.
My eyes welled with tears. “Stop,” I rasped out, my throat feeling like it had been shredded by razors. “Please, stop …” I whispered. But I knew they wouldn’t. Then—
“I believe she fucking told you to stop.”
I froze. In that moment, the sound of the thick cockney accent was like the voice of God himself in the deserted alleyway.
“Fuck off, prick,” one of the men spat.
“No can do.”
I managed to move my head to the side, my skin scraping against the rough brick, only to see a familiar head of black hair and piercing blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses penetrating through my attackers.
“Arthur,” I managed to whisper, tears of relief filling my eyes. His gaze flitted to mine for only a second before it was back on the assailants. Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife.
The men behind me laughed. “Last chance to fuck off,” they said. Their accents were definitely not English or even Spanish. I had no idea where they were from or why they wanted me. “Or you won’t make it out of this alley either.”
My heart crumbled. They were going to kill me. I fought back nausea and prayed my legs would keep me upright even as my body shook profusely in terror.
Arthur pointed his knife in my direction. “Be good boys and cover up the lady you’ve stripped down, and I might consider not killing you.” He spoke with no emotion, his face giving nothing away. “Give her back her modesty, and I might just maim you instead.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the leader of the group said. “Kill him,” he instructed his men.
My arms were released as the men holding me rushed at Arthur. I swayed as fear, true and stark, took me in its hold as the three men charged. Arthur didn’t move. Didn’t even change his stance. He simply waited for the first man to attack and, in a second, slashed his knife across his throat. The man dropped to the floor.
Before the others even had a chance to attack, Arthur stabbed one in the chest, right through his heart, and stabbed the other in his neck, right in his jugular. The men fell like swatted flies around him, the alley floor instantly flooding with red.
The man behind me took his hands off my neck. I sagged against the wall, trying to catch my brain up with all that was happening.
They were dead. Arthur had killed them.
I scrambled back further against the wall. I let my disbelieving eyes seek out Arthur. He hadn’t a hair out of place. No droplets of blood were evident on his white shirt. He wasn’t out of breath. He was completely unaffected by what he’d just done.
Arthur pointed his knife at the man who had lifted my dress. His head cocked to the side as he studied him like a panther would do his prey—stealthy, cold, controlled.
“Who sent you?” Arthur asked.
My attacker rocked on his feet from side to side, eyes darting around the alley, clearly looking for an escape. There was none. None, unless he managed to get through Arthur.
“No one,” he said.
Arthur came closer. “I asked you a simple que
stion. You failed to give me an answer.” Arthur reached out and, like a python, grabbed the attacker by his throat. The man lashed out with his fists, but Arthur was too strong for him. “I don’t ask questions twice.” Looking the attacker dead in the eyes, Arthur pushed his blade, slowly, through the man’s shoulder. The man screamed in pain. Arthur seemed unbothered whether people heard the screams or not.
I was as still as statue, frozen in shock. I focused on breathing, my throbbing cheek and neck ignored as I watched the horror show before me. As I watched the boy I had obsessed over for years casually embrace the darkness I had been warned lived within him.
This was the Arthur Adley everyone had heard of. This was the boy that had everyone in London terrified.
But this was also the man who had just saved my life.
Arthur pulled the knife from his shoulder and nodded toward the end of the alleyway behind me. “There’s some broken glass down there. You’re going to go and get a piece.”
I frowned in confusion along with the attacker. “What?” he said. “You want me to have a weapon?”
“You have five seconds, or I will kill you where you stand, slowly and painfully.” The man ran and picked up a long shard of jagged glass. My stomach fell.
What was Arthur thinking?
“Arthur …” I whispered, in warning. But Arthur didn’t even acknowledge me. His attention was solely fixed on the attacker and the weapon he now yielded.
The man crouched down, ready to attack. Arthur placed one hand in his pocket. I wondered if he was reaching for another weapon, a gun maybe. It quickly became apparent he was simply putting his hand in his pocket in a casual, relaxed manner.
“Open your fly again,” Arthur said, and the air in the alleyway grew stagnant with paused breath. He pointed at the attacker with the tip of his knife—a knife that was now dripping with four types of blood—the blood of his slain victims. The attacker did as Arthur said. I turned my head and saw the attacker’s cock. He wore no underwear. Bile rose in my throat. He had been going to force himself on me. If Arthur hadn’t turned up …
