Page 8 of Bound by Them (Rose and Dagger #1)

Edmund

T hree generations sit in Grandfather’s office, arguing over things like revenge, money, and the family image. My father is more hung up on revenge, Grandfather is more hung up on family image.

I’m more hung up on Arky, who has positioned himself at my feet, leaning his solid body against my leg.

I drink my coffee and take a croissant from the tray brought in by the housekeeper. Troy stands back by the wall, blocking the view of Grandfather’s favorite painting—an abstract watercolor of London’s Tower Bridge. It reminds Grandfather of his youth.

My buddy Caleb, who works with my family, sits next to me. I’d rather Troy sit, too, but he hates this shit and prefers to keep an eye on us.

I wonder if he has his phone ready to blare more Backstreet Boys.

I wonder what Caleb would’ve done if he’d been here when I nearly went after my dad for talking about Danica. With his smoothed-back black hair almost as smooth as his talking, Caleb is a favorite with my dad and grandfather. He probably could’ve talked our way out of trouble.

But “I Want It That Way” was pretty fucking funny, I have to admit. The surprise on my father’s face….

“We’ll recover from the half-mill,” Grandfather says in his gravelly voice. Every word he says sounds painful. I wonder if it’s all the practice he had to do to overcome his Cockney accent, to get to his current Queen’s English.

At eighty years old, with over half of his years spent in the US, Grandfather could shed the accent. But maybe all the work he had to do for it makes him want to keep it.

Everything about him is rigid and controlled. Like my dad, he seems to feel nothing—unless he’s angry. That emotion is okay, I guess.

Dad’s eyes flash. “We can’t just let them walk all over us.”

Arky stares at the croissant as I lift it to my mouth. Little beggar. Fuck, I love this guy.

“It’s our image I’m worried about.” Grandfather’s blue eyes are the same as my dad’s. I’m the odd man out, with my green eyes. “Did the media catch wind of the explosion?”

Dad snorts. “They did. But we stifled the news, redirected with a scandal at a Mirarosa school.”

“Good, good.”

I wonder whose life they ruined to protect our “image.” I hope the poor bastard deserved it. I break off a piece of my croissant and subtly give it to Arky.

Caleb sees me do it. He grins and accidentally-on-purpose drops some of his croissant to the floor. Arky lurches over and gobbles it up like a canine vacuum cleaner, but he quickly returns to my side.

“We need some positive exposure,” Grandfather says. “Are there any events coming up?”

Caleb and my father both take out their phones to look. I should help, but to be perfectly fucking honest, I don’t want to.

“There’s a premiere in two weeks in LA,” Grandfather says. “Joni Abioye’s new film. Supposed to be big.”

“This Saturday there’s a benefit at the Rosa Roja.” Caleb holds up his phone. “Did you get an invite? The hotel’s in Salding.”

“Might have. Olivia Santiago is throwing the party.” Grandfather nods. “I’ll look into it. We can send Edmund.”

I frown. “My parents should go. It’s been a while since they were seen in public together.”

Grandfather and Dad both scoff, like this is the stupidest idea. It sort of is. My parents hate being in the same room and avoid it at all costs. Just the same, they could disguise their mutual loathing long enough to get through an evening.

“What about Edmund taking Rosalind May?” Caleb asks.

I shoot him a look of annoyance. He’s supposed to be my friend. But he’s kissing the asses of my dad and grandfather…at my expense.

“The governor’s daughter.” Grandfather nods. “That would garner some attention.”

“It’s too short notice.” I lean back, and Arky leans with me. “I can go alone.”

“You showing up alone somewhere is hardly noteworthy—there are no positive headlines in that.” Grandfather starts tapping on his phone, likely looking for Governor May’s contact information.

I scramble for something, anything, to stop this idea dead in its tracks. “When’s the next shipment coming in?”

They take the fucking bait, and discussion of Olivia Santiago’s benefit is dropped in favor of plans for heightened security at the docks next week.

I add fuel to the conversation, mentioning something Troy had said about incompetent guards.

Caleb takes offense, since he’s on security detail.

Serves him fucking right, for throwing me under the bus with that benefit.

An hour later, Troy and I get into the back of my car, and Jon takes us away from Rendsell. With every passing mile, the tightness in my body loosens.

At least, until my grandfather texts me contact info for Rosalind May. Take her to the benefit .

I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. I already have a date .

It’s a lie, and a stupid one. If I had a date, I would’ve mentioned her earlier. But I can’t ask Rosalind May out. We barely know each other. There is, however, someone I want to ask. Little Danica Montrose.

So I text Danica instead of Rosalind. What are you doing on Saturday?

My phone rings immediately. It’s her. She must be free on Saturday. Perfect.

I grin as I answer. “Hey. I know it’s late notice, but?—”

“Fuck you, you fucking ball-gargling gangster asshole .”

“I—what?” Maybe she misdialed.

“Do one good thing in your life, Edmund Layton, and lose my fucking number.”

I stare at my phone. Is she possessed? What the fuck happened? Last time we talked, she was happily curled up next to Troy after eating my lasagna. “Danica, seriously, what are you talking about?”

But the only answer I get is three short beeps indicating she hung up.

A text immediately comes through: Ball-gargling gangster asshole . She must be especially proud of that insult.

Confusion and annoyance battle for dominance in my head as I dial her back.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

I call again. Same result.

I turn to Troy. “The little brat fucking blocked me.”

* * *

Troy

I sit inside a coffee shop facing Isabelle’s Creamery. The scent of fresh grounds surrounds me. It’s seeped into my clothes. Probably into my very pores. I’ve been here for four hours, after following Dani here from her house.

I feel like a stalker, but I’m really just trying to figure out why she lost her shit on Edmund yesterday. I could hear her through his phone. “Ball-gargling gangster asshole.” The gangster thing trips me up. Did she not know, beforehand? I thought everyone knows.

I guess if you aren’t in this life, this kind of shit can fly right past your awareness.

But isn’t Dani in this life?

Maybe she isn’t. She lives with roommates in a small house in Old Thirty-Three, and she works part-time at an ice cream shop. It doesn’t exactly scream “criminal princess.”

One thing’s for sure—she’s testing my patience.

I know she saw me earlier, because she flipped me off.

Without even giving us a chance to talk about things, she decided we’re the enemy.

Edmund’s right, she’s a brat. I’d love to take her to Salt, tie her to a spanking bench, and give her what she deserves.

The bells on the coffee shop door jangle as two teenage boys walk in. I halt my fantasy. This isn’t the place for these thoughts. And Dani hasn’t agreed to any kind of dynamic involving punishment.

I think she’d like it, though. The way she went pliant against my hold that first night makes me think she’d love being restrained. Controlled. Even punished.

My coffee cup is empty. I pretend to take a sip so the barista will stop giving me dirty looks. I guess I should order something else.

I make the trip to the counter. The two teenagers are waiting for their drinks. They evaluate me in their cool-guy way, and they have to move their gazes up, and up, and up to reach my face. Yeah, I’m a brute, I get it.

After I put in my order and pay, one of the teens gets the courage to ask, “What are you, six-four?”

“Close. Six-five.”

He whistles. Before he can ask the inevitable follow-up questions about what sports I play, I turn to check on the ice cream shop.

Dani is leaving. Shit. I turn around so fast, I have to reach back to steady a chair before it topples over.

“Gotta go,” I tell the barista. “You can give my drink away or whatever.”

I bolt from the coffee shop and follow her on foot to where her car is parked. Mine is nearby.

Her head is down, blond hair blocking her face from view. Something in her stance makes me think she’s sick.

What happened to her? Maybe she’s hurt. But how—I wouldn’t think her work in the ice cream shop is all that dangerous.

The breeze picks up her hair and she smooths it back from her face as she walks.

Her eyes are red, her face twisted in despair.

She isn’t sick, she’s crying. What the fuck happened?