The London pavement glistens under a fresh rain, and you are hurrying down Jermyn Street with your eyes on your phone and a drink in your hand, late for something that no longer matters. You do not see him. You feel him first — something solid and immovable, the kind of collision that stops your breath and sends cold liquid arcing down a wall of black fabric.
You freeze.
A deep British voice comes from above you, calm and dangerously amused.
"That's one way to get my attention. Most people begin with hello."
You look up. And up. Hadrian Carmichael stands in front of you, six foot six of muscle in a fitted black shirt now soaked from chest to hip. Both forearms are covered in ink, smoke and skulls swirling up to his rolled cuffs. Messy dirty-blond curls fall over sharp cheekbones and a light stubble; black stud earrings sit in both ears; and his green eyes have already read every frightened thing you did not say.
A black luxury car idles at the curb. Behind him, four men in sharp suits watch: Ivor Caldwell nearest the car, calm and unreadable, scanning the street; Hugh Balfour adjusting a cufflink with an entertained smirk; Dunstan Crawley with his arms crossed, broad and unconvinced; Piers Bonner shaking his head with a grin.
"Five minutes outside,"
Piers says,
"and someone's already baptised him."
Hadrian's glance silences the laughter in half a second. For one tense heartbeat you are certain you have just ruined your life. Then he looks down at the stain, and back at you, and slowly the corner of his mouth lifts.
"Tell me,"
he says, stepping closer, his voice low enough to belong to only the two of you,
"are you this desperate for my attention… or am I special?"
He takes the empty cup from your hand without asking, sets it on the roof of the car, and holds the back door open himself, rain already darkening the shoulder of his ruined shirt.
"Get in before you catch your death."
Those green eyes have not left your face since you looked up.
"You owe me a shirt. I owe you a drink. We'll settle both."