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Finn frowns. “They want you to marry, Theo. It’s not unreasonable. You were just speaking about all the generations of McNeils who worked to make this branch of the Kings what it is. What happens if you don’t have an heir? There will be no McNeil to take over. All of that, gone. And a civil war, most likely, as all the remaining Kings bicker over who takes the seat. Is that what you want to leave as your family’s legacy?”
“Of course not.” I stand up abruptly, striding to the wooden bar at the far end of the room, and pour myself a healthy slug of whiskey into a glass. “You know that.”
“Then what are you waiting for? You could have heirs three times over by now, or more. You could have a son old enough to start learning who he will grow up to be.”
I press my lips together in a thin line. The answer isn’t one I can say aloud—Finn understands me better than most. Still, I’m not sure even he would understand this…the desire I’ve long had to have a wife who is more than a pawn, more than a means to produce heirs.
I don’t need to marry to keep my bed warm. There’s no shortage of women eager to fill the empty space on the other side of my pillow. What I don’t have is companionship, tenderness, or the privilege of a woman who can truly stand at my side, one who could be my confidant and friend as well as a bride.
But that’s not something easy to find in this world. Men like me marry for connections and money, to broker alliances, and build empires. The women who facilitate such things are often either sheltered and cowed, raised by domineering fathers who have driven or beaten every original thought out of their heads, or want the money and status themselves as well, without any real interest in the man offering it.
This world is dangerous. My life is always at risk—thus the Kings’ insistence that I’ve gone far too long without securing my family line—and a woman inclined towards love doesn’t often wish to marry a man who she might lose in a deal gone wrong or a territory dispute. The recent upheaval between the Vasilevpakhanand Ivan Narokov is a prime example—the head of a family gone, two fathers, and very nearly a daughter and wife as well, not to mention the Vasilev heir. Our lives are privileged—until they’re not. Without care, it can all come crashing down—sometimes even with it.
“I was contacted by Vasilev today,” I tell Finn, downing the whiskey and pouring another glass. “He wants me to consider marrying his sister.”
Finn raises his eyebrows, whistling. “You could do worse. It would solve two problems—but not all the Kings will like it. Taking over their territory will bring more profit than a simple alliance.”
“But it comes with more bloodshed.” I return to the table, pushing a glass to him as well. “Do they want to sacrifice men? The possibility of their families’ safety? I don’t wish to, if there’s another option. I prefer measured risk, as my father did. We’ve grown powerful and rich with that philosophy. I see no reason to change our tactics now.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Finn shrugs, reaching for the glass. “Do you think the girl wants to marry you?”
“Does it matter?” It matters to me, but that’s not something I’m inclined to say aloud. “If her brother orders her to, then she will. That’s the way of things.”
Finn shrugged again. “It’s a question worth asking. So you’re going to say yes?”
“What makes you think that?” I give him a wry grin, because Finn knows me well enough to say such a thing. I was an only child, with no siblings, and I often wanted a brother. Finn, for all that he technically works for me, all but fills that role.
“I know the look on your face when your mind is made up.” He tosses back the last of his whiskey, taking the glass back to the bar. “For what it’s worth,” he adds, the clink of glass on glass letting me know that he’s pouring himself another, “I think it’s the right choice.”
Technically, Finn’s approval doesn’t matter. But privately, I’m glad to have it. “I’ll contact him in the morning,” I tell Finn. “Sleep on it tonight.”
“That’s wise.” He raises the glass, grinning at me. “To Theo McNeil finally getting hitched.”
I glare at him but toss the rest of my whiskey back anyway.
Looks like I’m finally taking a bride.
—
I have a business dinner that evening, and it’s enough to take my mind off Nikolai Vasilev and his sister for a little while. The meeting in question is at a highly-starred restaurant that’s all black leather and dim corners, chandelier lighting, and beautiful, soft-spoken women in designer dresses on the arms of powerful men in designer suits—the sort of place that doesn’t come as naturally to me as it should. Still, I’ve long learned to blend in since I was young enough to understand my place in the world. I am what I am, one of these powerful men, even if sometimes I think I might have preferred a quieter life.
But my family worked for generations to ensure that the McNeils had a name, that we were synonymous with power and wealth, and with that comes a responsibility that I can’t shirk.
The meeting is with an investor in a new string of clubs, another front for all of the illegal business dealings that provide the real money. It’s the usual talk of finances and business plans, a ledger and portfolio open on the table in front of us between the plates of expensive hors d’oeuvres and glasses of top-shelf whiskey and cognac. It goes on for so long that I’m beginning to get tired by the end of it, when the paperwork is signed and the bill is paid. I sit there for a moment longer after he’s gone, contemplating another drink, and that’s long enough for a pretty dark-haired woman in a skin-tight red dress to slip into the chair across from mine, her chin resting prettily on her hand.
“Your company left,” she observes. “Let me buy you a drink.”
She’s forward. She might be an escort, but I don’t think so. There’s a certain nervous bravado to her that tells me she’s been watching me for a good part of the night. If I had to guess, she has a group of friends in another part of the restaurant who are all silently cheering her on right now. I glance a little to my left, covertly as I’ve been long taught, and I see exactly that—a table of five other women, all in equally tight and expensive dresses, whispering behind their hands as they watch her.
“I’m a bit old for you.” The words sound ridiculous even to my ears—except for a bit of grey at the temples, and here and there in my stubble, I don’t look forty-three, and age gaps between me and the women who warm my bed for a night have never bothered me in the slightest.
If I was truly worried about that, I wouldn’t be contemplating marriage to Marika Vasilev.I’m not even sure she’s twenty.
The girl giggles, a light and playful sound that should send all the blood rushing to my cock, but instead just faintly irritates me.What the hell is wrong with me?I could take this girl up on her offer of a drink and have her back at my penthouse within an hour, her legs up around her ears or her mouth around my cock. She’d probably do anything I asked of her, and I get the feeling that she’d probably do it well.
The problem, of course, is that I’m getting sick of meaningless sex. Which actually does make me feel fucking old.
I’ve had a monumental amount of it in my life—so many women in and out of my bed that I’ve forgotten what a lot of them looked like and certainly most of their names. It’s been so much that I’ve gotten tired of it. They’ve all blended together, into a teeming mass of pointless conquests that all seem to look and sound and feel the same, until it feels like more of an effort than it’s worth to take this girl home instead of just pumping my fist over my cock myself a few times and calling it a night.
