Page 35 of Riot House
He puts the phone in his pocket, backing away from the table. “Okay. Okay. Well, uh, thanks. If I can get it back to you any quicker, I’ll let you know.”
13
WREN
Breathing.Blinking. Swallowing.
Some skills are innate. We’re born with them. Without them, we’d die the moment we come screaming into the world, vulnerable and covered in viscera. I feel likeIwas spat out of my mother’s womb capable of tying a half-Windsor knot. It feels like a skill I came equipped with at birth. Because when you’re born into a family like mine and you’re landed with the kind of fatherIwas landed with, such talents are required if you hope to survive.
I twist the black silk around on itself, tucking it up through the loop, feeding the length of material through the gap between the front of the knot, fiddling with it until it sits perfectly at the base of my throat. Who needs a fucking mirror for this shit?
“They’re gonna think you’re the waitstaff again,” Dashiell states, holding the door to the ballroom open for me.
“They always do.”
“A white shirt. That’s all you’d need to differentiate yourself. White’stotallyacceptable, Wren. A white button-down wouldn’t put a dent in the whole bad guy façade you’ve got going on in the slightest.”
I follow him into the politely seething crowd, flattening down my collar with a smooth flick of my wrist. “I’m fine with what I’m wearing.” Actually, I’m far from fine. This is only the second set of clothes I’ve been able to wear since my punishment ended, and some ripped jeans and my favorite, ratty sweater would be much more preferable. This monkey suit is a fucking torture device.
Dashiell’s suit is classically cut and perfectly tailored. Pax’s suit is a Tom Ford, and retails for twenty grand. Both of them look so content in their luxuriously fitted finery that I hate them a little for it; I’m happy as a pig in shit during the most awkward, miserable, wretched situations, but being restrained by a suit is something I’ve never handled well. If my father could see me now, he’d laugh his fucking ass off.
“Don’t suppose any of the women at this thing are fair game,” Pax observes. Though it’s more of a sly enquiry than a true observation. There’s just enough of a lilt at the end of his statement to suggest that he’s open to Dashiell correcting his assumption.
Wise to his tricks, Dashiell snags a glass of champagne from a passing waiter holding a silver tray aloft in the air, his expression all business. “Pax, if you so much as look at a single one of the women in this room tonight, I will personally castrate you and feed your testicles to my father’s hunting dogs.”
Pax adopts a grumpy air as he, too, grabs himself a glass of champagne. “People don’t have hunting dogs in America, Lovett.”
Dashiell clinks his flute against the one in Pax’s hand,cheersing him. “Yes, they do. But either way, I’ll happily fly back to Blighty with your balls in a mason jar, buddy.” From the outside, Dash doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d deign himself to get his hands dirty. There’s a soft, well-heeled vibe to him that has people betting against him in a fight. Looks can be, andare,very deceptive, though. Dashiell’s as fierce as they come. Irrespective of his breeding and his education, he’s not afraid to throw a fist or two. I’ve seen him shove his finger up a dude’s nose and rip his nostril wide open in a brawl before. Guy really does not give a shit.
Pax grumbles unintelligibly under his breath as he drains his drink in one. He doesn’t doubt Dash’s threat. He will steer clear of the women at tonight’s event, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.
“And don’t drink too much, either,” Dash says, surveying the room. He looks cool and collected, but he’s on edge, I can tell. He looks like he’s casually taking in the chandeliers, and the antique furniture, and the handsome people, dressed in all their regalia, but Lord Dashiell Lovett the fourth is looking for his father. It could be said that Dash is always looking for his father. For his approval, that is.
“Remind me again why we agreed to come to this travesty?” Pax growls. His eyes are steel-grey tonight, the color of the angry North Sea.
“Because you both owe me,” Dash answers brightly. “And because I asked you to. And because you’re good friends who would never fuck over their mate.”
Urgh. Doing things I don’t want to do in order to make someone else happy is not in my nature. “I need to send a text. I’ll be right back,” I mutter.
“Don’t wander too far, Jacobi. I need you back here in ten.”
Smiling thinly, I sketch a mock bow. “Back in five.”
Outside, the night air is brittle in my lungs. The chatter from inside still rings in my ears as I become accustomed to the deafening silence. The manor house is on a hundred acres, which might not be a lot of land in the grand scheme of things—even Wolf Hall sits on three times that—but it’s as though the dense woodland stretches on forever into the dark, and it feels like we’re the only living things for a thousand miles. Right on cue, an owl screeches in the distance, and the sound is eerie and piercing, as if the creature’s indignant that I forgot about him.
Grim as an undertaker, I pull out my phone and power it on, waiting for the screen to light up. I could fidget and tap at the display to hurry the process along, but that’d be ridiculous. Technology can’t be expedited by willful human impatience. So I stare at the phone instead, grinding my teeth together as I wait for the illuminated Apple logo to blink out and the home screen to appear.
There.
Finally.
Working quickly to avoid the inundation of texts and notifications that begin to pour in, I open up a blank message and tap out a quick message.
+1 (819) 3328 6582
Did you get it?
Niceties aren’t required here. Even if they were, the recipient of this text wouldn’t be getting any. I place the phone down on the flat railing that skirts the balcony, and I turn back to face the building, blankly observing the people through the windows, wondering what they could all possibly be so happy about.
