A foreboding shiver streaks down my spine, even as I bite back my pride and allow myself to beg. For the sake of my siblings. For the sake of my long-term goals. For the sake of survival.
“Hire me,” I whisper. “Please.”
“Apologies, Miss Quinn, but the answer’s still no.”
Tossing my CV on the table, he makes a move to stand. And this time it’s despair that kicks my arse into gear. I jerk out my right leg, cutting off his upward momentum by kicking him in the soft flesh of the back of his closest knee.
“Fuck—”
His weight destabilizes, big hands clutching and releasing the air as he fights for purchase. I sweep his chair forward, hooking my toes around the wooden leg, then plant my hand against his stone-hard thigh—and push.
With his balance already unstable, he topples backward, once more collapsing in the seat.
Raw, undiluted fury flares in his expression. In a voice pitched so low that I can barely hear it over the other customers in the pub, he growls, “Get. Out.”
Stand your ground.
You need this.
He called you a prostitute!
Swallowing a healthy dose of unease, I shake my head. “I cannot.”
Those pale eyes of his empty of any and all patience—not that he had much to begin with. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t toss you out on your ass.”
It’s now or never.
This moment is five years in the making. Five years of putting myself directly in the fire and stoking the flames. Five years of planning and doing everything in my power to prove that my parents didn’t die in vain.
That my siblings will live in an England—in a world—where a king or a queen can’t cause chaos with a flippant flick of the wrist.
The man seated across from me may look savage but looks can deceive. Souls . . . souls can’t, and mine was lost to a riot that tore my family to shreds. I can only hope that somewhere, deep inside, his humanity outguns his frigid personality.
There’s one item missing from my CV.
One achievement that can never be listed.
I’m Isla Quinn, and I killed the king.
For my siblings.
For my country.
And for vengeance.
“Time’s running out, Miss Quinn.”
Leaning forward, I smile at the scarred man seated opposite me. I need him, and though he doesn’t realize it yet, he needs me too. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Priest, and I think it’d be in your best interest to hear me out.”
3
Saxon
In my world, Isla Quinns are a dime a dozen.
Women—and men—who think they can hack it in London’s underground and offer something crucial to the anti-loyalist cause. Oh, they do their best to rise to the occasion, I’ll give them that. They stand side by side with the other protesters, hoisting posters high above their heads with slogans like, Death to the Monarchy! or Long Live Democracy!
But then trouble—as it always does—snakes its way in. Shackles clank around wrists. A friend finds himself sprawled on the ground, trampled by the crowd. A semi-automatic goes off—something no civilian ought to have in the first place—and you look down to find that your fingers come away with blood after touching the growing, sudden ache in your chest.
Boom.
Where dissent goes, trouble always follows.
And Holyrood creeps in afterward, snipping the lifelines of those who would do more than just shout about the injustices of a British monarchy.
I look at Isla Quinn now, and in her blue eyes I see that same misguided belief that she has what it takes to make a difference.
She doesn’t.
No one does.
If, for no other reason than because Holyrood won’t allow it.
Savior. Devil.
I suppose, depending on your stance, we play both sides of the fence—and we do it to perfection.
Except for the king’s assassination.
My chest grows tight, and I’m not sure if it’s because Isla is studying me like I might pounce and tear her apart, limb from limb, like some savage beast, or if it’s the ever-present awareness that I failed. We failed.
With finality, I shut down those thoughts.
Cracking my knuckles, I slide my ass to the edge of the chair so I’m centimeters from her. Strawberry-blond hair touches her collarbone and frames her face in soft waves. Freckles mar her skin, heavily concentrated on the bridge of her nose. In that prim skirt and blazer set she’s wearing, she looks like a teacher hell-bent on correcting a student’s errant ways. Otherwise innocent and naïve, but that husky voice of hers . . . the way she maneuvered my much larger frame, tells me that Isla Quinn is harboring secrets of her own.
Doesn’t mean she’s not unnerved, though.
Go ahead, I want to taunt when her blue eyes bounce from my face to my chest and then back up again, show me how you really feel. Any moment now, she’ll start squirming. They all do. I know what I look like, and this isn’t the first time—nor the last—that I’ll use my face as a method in getting people to fuck off.
We’re locked in a silent standoff. No words. No movement.
Until her full lips part and she utters for a second time, “Hire me.”
My palm flattens on the table as I lean forward, close enough that I note the way she draws her shoulders together like she’s facing off against the enemy. How ironically accurate. “I’m not interested in your propositions, Miss Quinn.”
“Will you listen to what—”
“You have nothing that I want.”
Long lashes flutter as she blinks back at me once, twice, thrice. And then, just when I think she’s about to accept defeat, her pert chin thrusts forward and she jabs a finger into my chest. “You don’t even know what I’m offering, what I’m willing to bring to the table.”
I catch her finger, then slip my hand around her wrist before she can issue protest. She’s dainty, small-boned despite being relatively tall for a woman, and I use my hold to yank her into me. By her ear, I hiss, “Listen to me carefully, Miss Quinn, because I’m going to say this only once: you’re out of your league.”
Pulling at her caged hand, her mouth grazes my cheek. Furiously, she whispers, “That’s your opinion, which you’re absolutely entitled to. But you don’t know me from Adam. I’m more than capable of handling myself.”
Maybe, but unlikely.
I’ve heard this same story a million times over since we opened The Bell & Hand. Isla Quinn isn’t the first to show up here with so-called propositions that we can’t live without. No, she’s only the first to pretend that she’s hoping to make a career out of serving tables before dropping the tall act and revealing her true motives.
“I don’t know what you thought you might get out of coming here but I’m no pillock. You’re wanting more than a job, and I hate to break it to you, but we aren’t recruiting for anything else.” I release her sharply then shove back my chair and climb to my feet. “You want to throw your hat into the ring? I suggest volunteering at a local charity, for the kids who’ve lost their parents after the last riot.”
I barely make it two steps before her voice has my knees locking tight: “Who do you suppose those kids grow up to become, Mr. Priest? Perfect, law-abiding citizens? Adults who meekly accept their lot in life, despite the fact that it’s been ripped to shreds, so much so that it’s barely recognizable?”