Lord of London Town

by Tillie Cole

  Arthur stood stoic and strong. He gestured to the glass in the attacker’s hand and said, “Now saw off your dick.”

  I stopped breathing. The attacker’s eyes widened. “If you think I’m fucking—”

  Arthur’s knife sailed through the air and plunged into the man’s other shoulder. He screamed and dropped to his knees. Arthur walked toward him, calm as a summer’s breeze, and yanked the knife from the man’s flesh. He held it at his throat. “You do as I say, and I’ll let you live. Don’t, and you die. That’s your choice.”

  Arthur stepped back, waiting patiently. With shaking hands, the attacker lifted the shard of glass, staring at it like it was his demise. He brought it to his dick and held it an inch above, eyes flicking from side to side as if he was trying to find an escape and quickly. His breathing was choppy, and tears began building in his eyes. There was no escape. That much was obvious.

  Arthur was a towering deadly sentinel, standing silently before his victim, waiting for his instructions to be obeyed. My feet wouldn’t move. I needed to leave, to not see this, but I was frozen. It was as though a subconscious dark place inside me wanted to see this depraved act of revenge carried out.

  Arthur took a step forward, knife ready to slit the attacker’s throat. “Wait. Wait!” the attacker said and, taking hold of his dick, brought the glass shard to press lightly against the flesh. He gritted his teeth and began to saw. I squeezed my eyes shut the second he made the first cut, but I heard the guttural noises that poured from his throat and the sticky sound of glass slicing through flesh.

  Panicking, I opened my eyes and focused on Arthur only. I needed to see him to calm me down. He appeared as unaffected as when he’d killed the men growing cold on the ground. When a loud bellow sounded behind me, I looked over to my attacker and fought back nausea on seeing his severed dick lying on the ground. Blood gushed from between his legs, and sweat ran in rivulets down his bright red face.

  “Let me go,” the attacker pleaded, his voice hoarse from pain.

  Arthur nodded once, a succinct silent answer. The man scrambled to his feet, taking his sawn-off appendage with him. He staggered toward Arthur, who stayed unmoving.

  Just as he passed Arthur, Arthur threw out his arm in a flash and slit the attacker’s throat. A look of pure disbelief shone in the man’s eyes for a moment before he dropped to his knees and fell forward, blood dripping from his wounds as he landed beside his friends.

  Arthur wiped his knife on the attacker’s shirt as the man gargled on blood, then he took his mobile from his pocket and texted someone. He stood, and the realisation of what I’d just witnessed, what had just happened to me, pounded into me like round after round of bullets from a machine gun.

  “Come.” Arthur came toward me. He wasn’t gentle in his approach. He took long strides to where I stood, then lifted me into his arms and walked down the alley to the entrance. I closed my eyes as we passed the bodies lying still and soiled on the ground.

  When enough time had passed, I opened my eyes and threaded my arms around Arthur’s neck. I felt his strong arms holding me, keeping me close to his chest. I glanced up at his face. He was so ruggedly handsome I could barely stand it.

  He had saved me.

  He had avenged me.

  And he had killed for me.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. Arthur kept his face forward, but I noted a small, quick clenching of his jaw. And if I wasn’t mistaken, his arms held me just a little bit tighter.

  I heard a car door open and realised we had reached the end of the alleyway. Arthur placed me in the back seat of the car and slid in beside me. I should have been nervous going anywhere with him, but I was the polar opposite. I was safe. I knew I was safe with him.

  As we began to pull away, I saw a van stop behind us. Men in black clothes and balaclavas got out and made their way up the alley. “Clean-up”, I assumed.

  I stared at Arthur, who was texting on his phone, feeling pain build in my wounds. I stared at this boy I had first met at age thirteen. The boy I had thought of more often than was normal. And now he had saved me. I didn’t know him. Our brief childhood encounter had been fleeting, yet felt as though it had been seared into my brain with a hot iron.

  I was all alone with him for the first time in five years.

  I was bruised and battered, but alive. Living, breathing, heart beating because of one man. All because of the man everyone told me to avoid.

  The beautiful devil who had just killed four men in front of me … and disturbingly, that didn’t diminish my attraction for him one bit. It only made me want to know him more.

  Who was Arthur Adley?

  I needed to find out.

  Chapter Three

  CHESKA

  The car stopped at Arthur’s yacht. My mobile vibrated, and I pulled it out of my clutch, which Arthur had retrieved from the alley floor.

  FREYA: Where are you? We’re worried.

  I took a deep breath.

  Gone home. Had a headache. I’m going to bed. Have fun. Don’t worry about me.

  I put my phone in my bag and tried not to feel guilty for omitting the truth about what had happened. But despite my throbbing cheek and my brush with the attackers, I needed to know what Arthur planned to do next. I wanted to speak to him. I wanted to get behind the high walls he had clearly built around him. He was a deep, dark mystery wrapped up in a seductive package, and I was intent on figuring him out.

  The driver opened the door beside Arthur and he stepped out. He walked around the boot and opened my door. I climbed out, wincing when my stomach stabbed with pain—the result of the punch I’d taken to my torso. Like in the alleyway, Arthur didn’t hesitate; he scooped me into his arms and carried me toward his yacht. Nerves burst in my chest.

  Arthur walked onto the back deck and through to the living quarters. I roved my gaze around the area, numbly looking at the cherry-wood finishes and Italian furnishings. An older man was waiting, and when I saw his black bag, I realised he was a doctor.

  “Not in here,” Arthur said to him and carried me through the centre corridor of the boat and into a large master bedroom. He placed me down on a huge bed that was dressed in black bed linen. Arthur stepped back, but from the way he crossed his arms over his chest and remained only a few feet from the bed, it was crystal clear that he wasn’t leaving.

  The doctor looked at him, appearing slightly unnerved. “Señor? I will examine her now.” Arthur nodded his head at the Spanish doctor but stayed where he was. “You can leave the room.”

  “No,” was all Arthur said. Goosebumps broke out on my arms at his curt, cold response.

  The doctor looked to me for guidance. “I’m fine with him staying,” I said.

  The doctor sighed but examined me from head to toe. He hesitated, glancing back to Arthur when he said, “Have you been compromised, señorita?”

  It took me a moment to understand his meaning. When it hit home, I shook my head. “No,” I said, seeing Arthur’s jaw clench again. The doctor stood and started putting his equipment back in his bag.

  “Bathe, then place ice on your cheek for the swelling. I will leave pain medication for you to take. There is no lasting or significant damage. You will be fine once the bruising fades.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and the doctor left the room. A man dressed in a dark suit came to lead him away. I looked down at my torn and bloodied dress and felt disgust and the residual embers of fear roll through me.

  What would have happened if Arthur hadn’t found me?

  “Shower is through there.” Arthur pointed to an en-suite bathroom. When I struggled to get up from the bed, he held out his hand. Our palms kissed, and my heart doubled its beat and shivers raced through the very marrow of my bones. Arthur helped me off the bed. There was no reason I couldn’t go and shower next door on my own yacht. But I didn’t want to go back there alone. That thought forced me to remember something, and I felt my stomach cave in.

  “They knew my name,” I w
hispered, 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.

  Arthur’s white shirt had turned transparent, and through the material I saw his ripped muscles and haunting black tattoos. The London skyline on his torso appeared sinister and gothic—the London of old, Victorian, eerie.

  He stayed silently before me as I shed tear after tear, exorcising the images of the attackers, their unwanted touches. When they had run dry, he took the shower head and rinsed off my hair.

  He grabbed a flannel from the shelf, covered it with body wash and bent down until he was at my eye level. I held out my arms, and Arthur ran the flannel over my reddened skin. My breathing grew more laboured with every stroke he made. He moved the flannel over my neck and down over my breasts. I was breathless as he skimmed over my flesh, but he never once looked at me with desire. Not in this moment. He was caring for me after an attack. And I was drawn to him all the more for it.

  Arthur dragged the flannel down my legs and over my feet. As he stood back up, he hooked his arm around my waist and turned me around. With one arm keeping me steady, he ran the flannel over my back and then down over my backside and the tops of my thighs.

  I fought back tears of both sorrow and relief. Sorrow for the attack, but relief that Arthur had saved me. Turning me back to sit on the ledge, Arthur brought the shower head to me and rinsed off the soap.

  Who was this man? The man who had just killed four others in front of me, without exertion or guilt. The sadistic man who had forced someone to castrate himself as I watched. And now he was here, caring for me like a saint, when we all knew he was anything but.

  Arthur carried me from the shower and wrapped an oversized bath sheet around me. He placed me on the bed, and then ducked back into the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, blocking Arthur from view. But when I lifted my eyes, I saw his reflection in the fog-free mirror. I saw every inch of him as he tossed off his shirt and shorts. I swallowed as his lightly tanned body came into perfect view. Then he removed his boxers, and I felt my cheeks flush as he moved fully before the mirror, totally bared, running a towel through his dark hair.

  My breathing came heavy, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He was tall and ripped and tattooed and more than well-endowed. Arthur wiped the lenses of his glasses on a cloth and placed them back on his face. Before I could avert my eyes, his gaze found mine in the mirror. I wanted to turn away.

  But I couldn’t.

  I clutched the towel tighter around me and stayed transfixed as Arthur dried himself, never taking his eyes off me, moving the towel over every inch of his skin—skin that was scarred in multiple places. But the scars couldn’t take anything away from his rugged beauty.

  Drops of water slid down his muscles. I wanted to feel them underneath my hands. I wanted to thread my fingers through his damp hair and feel his full lips against my own. Arthur was nothing like Hugo. In fact, he was the polar opposite in every way. I had never longed for Hugo. I’d never wanted him to possess me, own me and make me forget the very essence of who I was.

  Arthur came back through to the bedroom, his towel tied around his waist. From his wardrobe, he pulled out a long t-shirt and a pair of clean boxers. He threw them on the bed beside me. “For you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. He took a pair of black pyjama shorts out for himself, putting them on under his towel.

  Arthur tipped his head back and sighed. I wondered what he was thinking. If he was regretting me being here. When he lowered his head, he said, “Get dressed. We need to ice your cheek.”

  We. The thrill that word inspired was pathetic, but nonetheless real.

  I quickly dressed in the clothes he gave me. They smelled of him. Of tobacco and fresh water and whatever laundry detergent the staff on the yacht used.

  When I was done, he wrapped his arm around my waist and guided me from his room. His body was hard and strong beside mine, his hand splayed on my stomach to keep me s
teady.

  His closeness left me breathless, light-headed and skin burning.

  In the main living room, he helped me down to the couch. He filled a clean tea towel with ice from the freezer and brought it to me. “Thank you.” I held the towel to my cheek, hissing at the sting.

  Arthur busied himself at the bar, his back muscles flexing with every movement he made. He came back to me with a glass of whisky, and a straight gin with ice for himself. He leaned against the bar and looked out of the bifold doors at the dark sky and glittering lights of Marbella’s pretty marina.

  “Arthur,” I said, needing to hear something from him, anything. He barely spoke, and it was driving me insane. He turned to me. “Thank you.” He nodded as if what he had done was nothing. As if killing four men wasn’t a huge deal, just an everyday part of his life.

  Judging by the rumours about his firm, that might have been true.

  I took a sip of my whisky, feeling the heat from the spirit coat my throat. It also gave me the courage to say, “You killed those men.” Arthur didn’t react to my words; they rolled off him as breezily as if I’d mentioned it was warm outside. “You killed them, Arthur … and what you did to the last man, with the glass …”

  Arthur watched me carefully and said, his voice neutral, “I’ve done worse, princess.”

  Princess …

  Despite the endearment, blood drained from my face. “No, I don’t believe that …” Arthur walked over and crouched in front me. His blue eyes searched mine. They were a dark kind of blue, almost navy, a unique colour that suited his dark, mysterious personality. Like the sky at dusk before the darkness came and smothered it with the black of night.

  “Believe it, princess.” He studied my face, lifting the ice pack back to my cheek. I hissed at the cold, but he held my hand in place regardless. He licked his lips, and I couldn’t help but trace the movement with my eyes. He’d licked his lips at my house five years ago, a silly habit of his I’d always remembered. I was as transfixed by it now as I was then.