Survival.
Deception.
Responsibility.
The Bell & Hand is the culmination of all that—a haven for those with a rebellious streak who seek a Britain without the lords and the ladies and the pomp of the royal family.
Absently, I reach up to the scar that I keep hidden with my hair. The pads of my fingers trace the scarred flesh.
As much as I want to tell the queen to piss off—the same way I wanted to tell her father—I never will.
Loyalty to my brothers, both those bound by blood and not, keeps me locked in a prison, generations in the making. The world sees the Priests as traitors, the scum of the earth.
Loyalists see us that way, I remind myself as I turn my back on the queen and snatch the phone off the counter. To those loyal to the Crown we’re radical anti-loyalists, but to others . . . we’re bonafide heroes.
Even if it’s a façade composed of nothing but lies.
2
Isla
I’m fucked.
Or, better yet, I’m desperate.
Desperate for a life where I don’t count every quid in my purse, always worried that the lights might be turned off at the flat I share with my two younger siblings.
Five years ago, I was prepared to move to the States. A new fancy job beckoned me across the pond, and then there was Stephen, my fiancé, who, even though he didn’t quite make my heart race, was still the perfect foil to the life I’d created for myself.
Then the riots began. The streets of London lit with anger and hate, and my parents—two middle-aged folks from Yorkshire who’d been in town to visit—were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
They were dead before the sun kissed the horizon good morning.
I never made it to America. Never took the fancy job. Never went anywhere with Stephen after that.
Most days it feels like I’m twenty-nine going on eighty-nine.
I tip my head back, lifting my chin so I can scan the black-and-gold sign hanging above the pub’s diamond-paned front window. The Bell & Hand. The ampersand has been scraped to within an inch of its life, the black peeking through the faded gold paint. I trail my gaze south, over the glossy black door and the shiny brass knob—move to the right, where potted plants sit in window boxes. Despite the fact that it’s March, the flowers are in full bloom, the poppies bright pink and yellow—a direct contrast to the dour-looking bloke gazing out the window.
No finely tailored suits like I saw regularly at the network.
No fancy smart watches encircling thick wrists.
No red poppies pinned to their lapels, in silent support of the royal family.
It’s for that reason specifically that I’ve come to apply for a position. Five years ago, before the Westminster Riots, I hadn’t heard of The Bell & Hand, not even in passing amongst friends. But now . . . well, now it seems like the perfect place to be, given our shared beliefs on the Crown.
The black door swings open and a dark-haired man steps out, a newspaper clasped to his chest as he draws a hat atop his head.
“Sorry,” he mutters, when he finds me loitering on the pub’s front stoop.
We sashay right, then left, and with an upturn of his lips, he finally steps around me. I keep the door open with the toe of my shoe.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Straighten my shoulders with single-minded purpose. Duck inside, and then draw in a sharp breath at the scent of coffee and pub food and anti-loyalist blood. It’s a heady concoction, made only that much sweeter when I catch sight of croissants being delivered to a table.
Delicious.
I’ve always been a sucker for a good pastry.
With my folder tucked under my arm, I edge farther inside.
Online, I read that the Priest brothers own The Bell & Hand. Like the pub itself, the Priest surname wouldn’t have registered five years ago—but nowadays, it feels like I know everything that’s ever been reported on them . . . Not that there’s much.
Unfortunately.
I do know this: The brothers are notorious among anti-loyalist circles. Spoken of with complete reverence and only ever mentioned in passing, it’s like everyone is aware of their existence though no one dares dive any deeper. I didn’t stumble across any pictures of them online. No firsthand interviews, either.
Because people are terrified of the repercussions if caught dishing out that information?
It’s not the first time the unnerving thought has snuck up on me, and I quickly stamp down a spark of worry.
I’m in need of a job, and if I have the opportunity to take one that won’t shove “God Save the Queen” propaganda down my throat, then there’s simply no better fit.
“Looking for somethin’?” asks one of the servers in a thick, Cockney accent when he spots me hovering by the bar. His graying hair is thin at the crown and seems to have migrated to his bushy beard. “The boss ain’t in.”
From all accounts, all three Priest brothers manage The Bell & Hand. “I want to apply for a position.”
His shrewd, brown eyes drift down my body, taking leisurely time to stop at my breasts and hips before he sucks his teeth behind his bottom lip. “Sorry, no openings.”
Before the riot, before my chance for freedom was ripped away by circumstances out of my control, I worked as a celebrity publicist. I can read a schemer when I see one, and this man? He schemes with the best of them. I bet he wouldn’t know honesty if it crawled out of that unruly beard of his and waved ’ello.
Reaching for the closest chair, I drag it out, purposely allowing its spindle-wooden legs to scrape against the floor, then sit down without an invitation. I tip my face up, all the better to meet the bloke’s stare head-on. “I have time to wait.”
I don’t, actually, not with Josie and Peter in and out of school, but that’s not this man’s business. All he needs to know is that I won’t be moving until I speak to one of the Priest brothers. Lucky for him, I’m not picky. Any of them will do—I’m certainly not about to start playing favorites.
The server grumbles under his breath, but anything he might have said next is forgotten the moment a dark-haired woman comes flying out from the hallway beside the bar. She hustles between the tables, moving slow enough to not crash into anyone but fast enough that I notice the harried way she peers back over her shoulder, once, twice, before darting out the front door and disappearing out onto Fournier Street.
Curiosity seeps into my veins when I hear a rumbling voice bark, “Jack!”
The Cockney server whips around, torso twisting sharply. His back snaps straight, and mine does, too, at the sight of the man entering the pub.
Savage.
My nails scrape the table as the thought flares to life. He’s big, large in a way that most men can’t even compare. But it isn’t his intimidating frame that kicks my pulse into overdrive.
It’s his face.
I stare openly, unable to wrench my gaze away from the harsh line of his crooked nose or the angry, ragged scar that gravely distorts his upper lip. My knees squeeze together under the table, feet involuntarily pulling inward as though prepared to send me running. The response is completely instinctual. Fight or flight. He’s not a man to anger, that I already know. His cheekbones are high, and his lack of beard surprises me.