Page 12 of From West, With Regret

“Wait,” he says quickly, digging into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out a pen, grabs my arm again and presses the tip to my skin, at the midpoint between my wrist and elbow.

“This is my phone number,” he says, flashing his hooded eyes up to mine as he stains my skin with the black ink before he looks back down to focus on my arm. His warm thumb presses into my flesh, and I can’t stop staring at the point where we’re connected. Like the ink of his pen isn’t the only thing marking me, branding me.

When he’s finished, he returns the pen to his pocket and keeps his gaze on my arm before looking back up. “Think about my offer. And when you make your decision, you’ll know how to find me.”

I briefly glance down at the numbers etched into my skin as he drags his thumb gently over them.

My mouth tugs into a small smile. “I could have just gone to The Veiled Door if I wanted. I know where to find you.”

“I’m not always there. This way, you canreach me any time.”

“Okay.” I look down at my arm, my skin still searing from his touch.

I expect to find only the numbers inked into my flesh, but my gaze zeroes in on the name written above it.

West.

This stranger’s name is West.

“Despite the reason we’re both here, and what I said about Heath to you”—I clear my throat—“it was nice meeting you, West.”

His smile wanes under the midday sun peeking through the clouds. “It was nice meeting you, too,” he offers back.

“London,” I say, pressing my hand to my chest, more to calm my beating heart than anything else. “My name is London. In case Heath didn’t tell you.”

“No, right.” He blinks. “London.”

The tweets of the birds nesting in the trees drown out our silence. Pressure builds in my chest like a taut thread, ready to snap. Unease settles in my gut, ready to snap the thread, and without another word, I spin on my heel and allow my feet to carry me out of the cemetery and away from the funeral. Away from West and the family I no longer consider mine. Not sure I ever truly did consider them mine at all.

Once I reach the outskirts of the cemetery, I tug my phone from my purse, desperate to call my sister. But even as I dial her number, I can’t help thinking about West and how him leaving his name on the inside of my arm felt like more than just him giving me his phone number. It felt like he was marking me somehow.

For some reason, that thought brings a torrent of butterflies to my stomach, too.

One I welcome this time.

FOUR

WEST

She had the same glint in her eyes and the same dimples in her cheeks as she had the last time I’d seen her at thirteen years old.

The day I swore an oath that I failed to uphold.

The sun has finally peeked through the ceiling of gray clouds that have shadowed the city all morning. My feet are rooted to the ground where I watched London walk away. I haven’t moved, replaying every second of every moment with her.

The same sense of dread I had watching her leave my bar earlier is no longer there. At least this time when I watched her walk away, I knew she had a way to reach me.

She also knows my name.

A name she clearly doesn’t remember, not even when she repeated in out loud.

“What the fuck was that all about?”

Spinning around to the sound of her scolding voice, I find my mother stalking toward me. I roll my eyes and stuff my hands in my pockets, curling my fingers if only to give myself a distraction from the onslaught of a lecture Glenna Hall is sure to bring.

She lifts the veil covering her face, revealing her beauty underneath… and the scowl on her face. Fisting her black dress, she holds it above the ground, watching to make sure she isn’t stepping into any of the deep puddles. Her bodyguard-assistant-secret lover walks several feet behind her. Henry was hired by my father nearly thirty years ago, and over time his job titles have shifted. First, he was my parents’ bodyguard before I came along. Then, after my father’s death, he quickly shifted to serving my mother’s every need, even romantically. A fact she hasn’t admitted out loud yet, but one I’ve gathered after observing them together over the past two years since my father’s death.

“Answer me, Weston Knight,” she demands, stomping toward me, using my full name to make an even sharper point. Her shoulders fall when she looks over mine in the direction London disappeared. “What was that all about?”

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