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Deirdre heads into the other bedroom, and probably the bathroom, judging by the sound of running water I hear. The toilet flushes, more water, then I think I hear the shower. But I guess she doesn’t wash her hair, because when she comes out all dressed it’s dry and tied in a long braid.
I like her hair like that. It makes me want to grab it and, I don’t know, dip the end of it into a schoolboy’s pot of ink or something. Tug on it until she’s forced to turn around and notice me.
That, or wrap it around my fist until she cries out, back arching and throat bared.
“How are you feeling?” Deirdre asks me. Her lips look red and chapped, as if she’s been chewing them.
“Just dandy,” I grunt.
I’m sitting up in bed now. Just getting into this position took a monumental and frankly embarrassing amount of sweating, swearing, and effort that make me want to get down on my fucking knees in thanks for the fact that Deirdre wasn’t in the room to see it. The pain is a lot worse than yesterday, which is irritating in the extreme. I guess enough of the adrenaline has worn off to let me feel the full extent of things.
And the full extent of things is pretty much shit.
I give the clock a meaningful glance, but Deirdre doesn’t move. There’s real concern in her eyes, her voice, when she says, “I don’t really want to leave you.”
Not sure I ever expected her to say something like that. I stare at her, dumbfounded, glad to be sitting my ass down so I don’t fucking collapse under the blow of what she just said.
“Go to class,” I manage to say, fisting the bedding with my good hand. “Get your shit done. And then come back to me.”
She watches me for another long moment before sighing and retrieving her school bag and laptop from the other bedroom. She pauses as she reaches the door that leads into the hallway, clutching at the strap of her bag over her shoulder, turning to look back at me.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” she says, rather tartly, I have to say, like I’ve stuck a sour sweet under her tongue. But that bitterness doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re wide and searching.
“Like what?”
“Like dying.”
She takes a sudden, quick breath through her nose then slams the door open, disappearing through it before I can say another word.
No, Songbird. I don’t plan on dying.
I’ve got a wedding that I need to survive to see.
Which reminds me…
I grab my phone from the bedside table and activate voice command.
“Call Bruno Lombardo.”
The phone rings a couple times before I hear the goldsmith pick up.
“Hello? Mr. Titone? How can I be of service?”
“I need rings,” I tell him. “A tray of them.”
“Certainly,” he says with a slight English lilt to the word. He spent some of his time training in London. “Do you know your size?”
“Not for me,” I clarify. “Women’s rings. Engagement rings. Maybe some sets with wedding bands, too.”
“Ah. Of course. I did see the engagement announcement. Congratulazioni. Since it was announced yesterday, I assumed that you’d already procured the engagement ring from one of my other fine colleagues in the business.”
“Please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You and I both know you’re the best in this city. Stop with the fake-humble, self-effacing bullshit and get over here. Now.”
“Ever at your command,” he says smoothly before I hang up and toss the phone down.
Bruno’s shop isn’t too far from here, and it’s less than forty minutes before I see his dark-coloured sportscar pull up to the gate on the security app on my phone. I track his progress through the property, watching as Curse opens the case Bruno’s lugging, checking it for weapons. Then, Curse leads him up the stairs into the room.
I look up from the security app on my phone, seeing them coming at me head-on from the doorway instead of the birds-eye view I’d had on the screen
