"Mine." Sereda doesn't know either, really; all she knows is that he's hers and she's his and if another woman so much as grins lewdly at Alistair, she will regret it.
Something shifts in her back pocket, and she blinks, fumbling backward, reaching over Alistair's arm still wrapped around her. It's a folded leather thing, with a card in it, and thin green papers with numbers on them. The card has her face, but not her name, and an address in New York. "What is this?" New York? What would be there for her?
Hopefully it's nothing she can't sell and/or transport to London.