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Ahead of us, a separate car carries Art and Mara toward the Harrington mansion.
“I was meant to be working on a job with Rafe tonight,” I sigh.
Her gaze moves from outside the car to me. “And?”
“And I had to make up a very convincing bullshit story about where I was going to get out of it.”
“What kind of story?”
“One where I definitely can’t get caught stepping a black Prada heel on Harrington land.”
Eilish sighs. “So, your family doesn't know I’m engaged to Fionn?”
Telling my brothers that my best friend is tied to the enemy would surely be the death of our friendship.
“Nope.”
I pull at the gaping slit in the dress I borrowed from her after leaving Black Heath stud in jeans and a jumper. Working in the yard with horses leaves me with bumps and scrapes, so I picked a dress that hides the evidence of hard labor. Although helping Rafe collect tribute envelopes in the evenings leaves bruises I can’t blame on horses.
“Maybe coming tonight wasn’t my brightest idea.”
This is the first time I’ve been this close to the ancient gray stone mansion. I've heard rumors about the maze-like layout and how there are a stupid amount of bedrooms for a family of Harringtons.
Apparently, staff have their own entrance and living quarters because heaven forbid the family should have to make their own midnight snacks.
Men stand at the front steps in dark suits, their attention fixed on every car that comes up the drive.
“You’re Sera Tallon,” she says. “You don’t back down from threats or the Harringtons.”
“No, but I don’t usually invite myself into their home, either.”
“You came because I brought you,” she corrects. “I need an ally. Someone who has my back. And you promised me.”
Her fingers tighten around the sparkly designer clutch in her lap.
“The man I have to marry is inside that house that looks like Dracula's Irish bolthole, and the thought of going inside to celebrate losing my freedom and pretending I’m okay with it makes me want to vomit.”
The driver slows the car as we approach the entrance with its thick columns holding up a portico.
“That’s why I’m right here,” I mutter. “But if your future in-laws murder me, I’m haunting you first. You’ll have the Harrington name after all.”
Her smile is small, grateful, and gone too quickly.
The car stops behind her parents’ vehicle. One of the suited men steps forward, opening Eilish’s door. Another waits on my side, his gaze flicking over the tinted windows, the long driveway, the shadows beyond the floodlights.
These men aren’t here to hold doors and smile at guests. They’re wearing earpieces, oversized jackets to hide weapons, and have eyes skimming for a threat.
One stands near the top of the steps with his hands folded in front of him, watching Art Kinnane climb out of the first car.
Cold air slips into the back seat and crawls over my skin. I gather the side of my dress, lifting the black satin before I step out.
The slit parts high against my thigh, revealing ridiculous high heels and a lot of leg. The bodice hugs so tight it makes breathing a conscious decision, the neckline is low but respectable, and the sheer sleeves are delicate over my arms.
It's a rare occasion for me to put on make-up and wear a dress that costs the same price as three yearlings.
Now, climbing the steps toward the 18th century manor house with Harrington men watching my every move, my chest tightens, and the knot in my stomach twists.
Eilish slides her hand into mine, diamonds at her ears, spine straight, face composed like Mara taught her.
