Page 11 of First Snow
“Come on, Mistress. Time to get home.”
“One more shot?” Emily bats her eyelashes at him, which looks ridiculous.
“No.”
“You’re a very bad sub,” Emily says loud enough to make some guys standing near them pay closer attention. Arttu feels a flicker of unease. He noticed the group earlier, more in Emily’s age range than his, all of them wearing suits and red bracelets. A very fancy bachelor party if Arttu had to guess.
He’s also noticed the way the group has been practically leering at female subs for some time now. They aren’t causing trouble yet, but he has enough experience from his patrol days to know that this can change at any minute. If he were the head of security, he would have a few guards watching these guys very closely.
“Yes, I am,” Arttu says quietly and placatingly, taking Emily by the elbow. He casts a glance at the assembled crowd. He’s pretty sure thatThe Worship’ssecurity guards are oblivious to this potential problem. Amateurs. Why Faeling spends a fortune on hiring ex-military and former police officers is a mystery to Arttu, considering none of them are doing their jobs.
“Hey, you can stay with us,” one of the men offers Emily. His good looks are hampered to some degree by the almost feverish gleam in his eyes, his pupils slightly dilated. Judging by the way he’s acting as the leader of the group, Arttu suspects he’s the groom.
Emily eyes the men disparagingly. “You’re wearing the wrong bracelet if you’re searching for a Domme.”
The guy’s mood flips within a heartbeat.
“Are you calling me a submissive?” he snarls.
Arttu tugs at Emily’s arm, trying to coax her to move past the men, but she plants her feet, glaring at the group.
“What’s wrong with being called a sub?” she challenges. “What kind of fragile ego would take offense in that?”
“You can sub for us, baby,” one of the other guys says, probably thinking he’s de-escalating.
Emily laughs at him. Arttu sighs inwardly. This isn’t going to end well. The man who first talked to Emily starts to look dangerously red in the face. The color doesn’t suit his reddish locks.
Arttu makes one last attempt to slip past the men, but the groom grabs Emily by the upper arm. Drunken conflicts usually escalate quickly and this one is no exception. But even Arttu is a bit surprised when Emily grabs the groom by the neck, creating maximum leverage and kneeing him in the groin. The man groans and sinks to his knees.
Arttu has half a second to enjoy the sight before he has to dodge a punch to his face. Adrenaline kicks in, and he throws himself between Emily and the next attacker. The rich assholes don’t seem to be too posh to try and beat up a girl. He breaks the nose of the first guy lunging at him, and twists the arm of a second until he utters a satisfying yell. A fist aims for his face but only grazes his cheek as Arttu twists away at the last second. He hears Emily yelling behind him. Someone grabs Arttu and forces his arms behind his back.
The next punch doesn’t miss his face. The hit makes the world spin around him, and his ears ring. It doesn’t prevent him from kicking the knee of the man in front of him. The guy howls in pain, but one of his friends is already pushing past him. Recognizing the groom, who’s obviously recovered from Emily’s kick to the family jewels, Arttu tries to twist out of the grasp of the two men holding him when the whole frantic scene stops. The men behind Arttu suddenly loosen their hold on him, and the groom’s face morphs from anger to insecurity ridiculously fast.
Arttu senses that someone is standing behind him, even before a hand lands heavily on his shoulder. It takes all of his willpower to neither flinch, nor whirl around.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the person behind him says.
Arttu doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s Faeling. A new rush of adrenaline shoots through his veins. Shit. This is the absolute worst way they could have met. If Arttu wants to make sure his target likes him, he needs to control the circumstances in which they meet. He has to conform to the target’s expectations. Arttu is pretty sure that Faeling would dig a shy and innocent guy. He won’t fancy a potential sub covered in blood who’d just tried to beat upThe Worship’sposh guests.
Arttu senses how the groom regains his composure. Anger reappears on his face and he takes a threatening step forward, pointing at Arttu.
“This guy attacked us,” he sneers.
Arttu’s mind races. If Faeling decides to listen to this bastard, as rich people are prone to do, the whole mission is in jeopardy before it has even begun. Following an intuition, Arttu takes a half step backward and presses his back against Faeling’s chest as if intimidated by the groom’s looming presence. Maybe Faeling has a protective streak?
“He attacked all six of you?” Faeling asks, his words drenched with condescension.
“These assholes harassed me! Arttu only tried to help,” Emily half shouts, half slurs from somewhere behind them.
“They’re both drunk,” the groom accuses.
“I’m not drunk,” Arttu snarls. “But you should be careful that you don’t get into a police check on your way home. They might do a drug screening.”
“You little–”
“Manners, Lord Briar,” Faeling interrupts him sharply. His grip on Arttu’s shoulder tightens, but it feels reassuring, not restraining. “I think an apology is in order. And I recommend you to move your celebration elsewhere unless you want to undergo a police check.”
Arttu is trembling with relief, and he doesn’t try to suppress it. Faeling is supposed to feel sorry for him.