“You don’t agree with the marriage either,” he mumbles.
Killian shrugs. “Different reasons than wanting to party at fucking Sullivan’s. What’s an arms dealer need protection for? A seedy knob like Malcolm Langston? Sounds fishy, don’t it?”
I don’t answer. Because honestly? He’s not wrong.
It’s worse when I remember Dad didn’t inform me beforehand; he let me go in cold to our meeting at Gossier’s, then sprung the arrangement on me.
But that’s the life of a spare—you’re so fucking expendable nobody gives a fuck about using you when it’s convenient.
We enter the Beekman’s prestigious Temple Court Room, where most of the guests are already in attendance, mingling in clusters under vaulted ceilings and golden lighting.
The walls are adorned with intricate mosaic tiles, gleaming like an old cathedral.
It’s grand. Elegant. And completely suffocating.
Eddie beelines toward a cute girl standing near one of the tall windows. Kacee McKinnon, daughter of an arbiter for the clan.
I shake my head, watching him flash that same cocky grin Lochlan used to wear at his age. The kid takes after his father.
For better or worse.
Killian grunts something about grabbing a drink from the bar and disappears into the crowd, leaving me standing alone.
I take a moment to survey the room. The Langstons are on one side—polished and refined and dressed like they’re attending a charity gala.
The Callahans are on the other—darker suits, rougher edges, whiskey in hand instead of champagne.
So much for cross-family unification.
Someone slides up behind me, their hand reaching around to grab my crotch. Their hot breath tickles my ear.
“I’ve missed you,” the person purrs. “Andyour cock.”
I glance over my shoulder despite already knowing it’s Byrdie.
Who else could it possibly be but the desperate bird?
I’ve always said her name suits her.
She’s a slender woman with permanently flushed cheeks and hair too dark for her pale complexion.
We had a thing in the past. Nothing serious. Just a fuckmate arrangement that worked ’til it didn’t.
I remain unfazed, my expression flat. “You’ve cleaned up nicely.”
She glowers at the subtle dig, her hand dropping away as she steps around to face me. “I was always good enough for your bed.”
“Don’t be too flattered. Most times I was just looking for a warm hole.”
“Your moans said differently,” she scoffs.
“Tell yourself that when men stop calling, Byrdie?”
My gaze travels beyond her as I scan the room again. I’ve never had interest in this conversation, but what little patience I did have has been lost.
“I heard you’re getting married.” She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “At first I thought it was a joke. Then I realized it was real. And I laughed all over again.”
“I have more important matters to handle,” I say, turning to leave.