Page 53 of Black Reign

Not a quick adjustment beneath the sleeve of his expensive sweater.

He reaches inside the neck of it, works his hand down beneath the fabric, scratches with visible satisfaction, then returns that same hand to the croissant sitting on his plate.

I stare.

He smiles.

Apparently he thinks I'm admiring him.

This is my life.

“You were saying?” I ask in French.

Marc leans back in his chair and resumes the story I've already heard three different versions of since breakfast arrived.

Something about rowing.

Or sailing.

No.

Triathlon.

Definitely triathlon.

He completed one in Nice last year and has now decided this achievement deserves its own oral history.

“The last kilometer is all mental,” he tells me. “The body has nothing left. You have to decide you're stronger than the pain.”

I nod solemnly.

Fascinating.

I once stayed awake for thirty-six hours dismantling a military-grade encryption protocol because someone in Prague insisted it couldn't be done.

But please.

Tell me about jogging.

Again.

Marc is beautiful.

That's the irritating part.

Dark blond hair. Blue eyes. Broad shoulders. The kind of face that makes women look twice when he enters a restaurant. His family owns several hotels, he went to the correct schools, skis, sails, speaks three languages badly, and has spent most of his adult life being rewarded for the extraordinary accomplishment of looking good in fitted clothing.

He catches me staring and smiles wider.

There it is.

That expression.

The smile of a man who believes the universe has personally blessed him with beauty, money, and a body worth discussing before coffee.

“Do you train?” he asks.

“Sometimes.”