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“I would have an eternal life. Plastic surgery is real, we can use that excuse until my parents die, and then I can keep in touch with the rest of my family through phone calls. Humanity sucks. As for children, I don't need a baby to complete my life. Frankly, I rather have you.”

Tristan looked down at me, his expression still. He did not agree. But the certainty in his eyes had cracked, leaving room for something far more dangerous: hope.

Before he could speak, a ringing came from his jacket.

Tristan removed the phone and answered it with, “Fabian.” Frowning, he listened. “I don't want this, Fabian. You aren't helping me, you're persecuting me.” Then he cracked his neck. “No.” He hung up.

“Well?” Bart demanded.

“He asked if I was ready to conduct the extraction. Then he warned me that things were about to get worse. He asked again, and I refused and hung up. I was about to threaten him, but I thought better of it.”

“Yes, best to keep him thinking we're on the defensive,” Cassian said.

“He's a persistent little bugger, isn't he?” Alistair flicked his hand as if trying to get something off.

“So?” Seraphel set his sharp stare on Tristan.

“We need to attack,” Tristan said.

“Tristan,” I hissed.

“I won't go along.” He took my hand. “But we've got to do something.”

The Conclave members left, speaking about how to best organize the assault once the men had been located. I just stared at Tristan.

“We'll make a backup plan, just as you suggested. All right?”

I sighed. “All right. But how are you going to feel when you kill the man who saved your life?”

“That man is gone. Fabian is now threatening both our lives. He's not my friend, Destiny.”

We went upstairs with the Conclave, and settled on a plan while we ate lunch. They had everything under control. Or so they said. All we had to do was wait, safely ensconced in the manor.

Chapter Twenty-One

We waited. And waited. A week went by, and the Conclave found no trace of the men. All of Fabian's and Osric's properties were under surveillance, but they hadn't shown up. Knowing this was a possibility didn't help. Saying I told you so wouldn't make me feel better.

Meanwhile, the Conclave pulled some strings and had the Smithsonian “lend me” to the Met in New York. Of course, the Met wasn't expecting me. It was just a cover to preserve my job since I'd used up my sick days. I read books, made love to Tristan, swam in the indoor pool, and inspected every artifact in the place. It began to feel less like sanctuary and more like a prison. Tristan, especially, seemed on the verge of a breakdown. He thought it would be easy to find Fabian.

Tristan came into our suite wearing his workout clothes, with a towel around his neck. He was dripping sweat and gorgeous. “I need a shower. Care to join me?”

“I'd love to.” I set my book aside, took his hand, and stood to follow him into the bathroom.

The shower stall was massive, lined in white marble, with old brass fixtures and two showerheads the size of dinner plates. On the wall above the tiles, a window of frosted glass let in diffused light. Tristan turned the water on for one showerhead while I went to the other. We stripped as the water got hot.

“Hold on.” I stopped him from getting in. “I just want a few seconds to appreciate this sweaty body.” I ran my hands over his chest and then stepped around him to glide my fingers over his back.

Grinning, he asked, “Had enough of me?”

“Never.” I kissed him, rubbing myself against his slick chest and groaning when I felt his shaft harden.

Easing back, I opened my eyes and searched his face. “Are you all right?”

“You ask me that while I have you naked and pressed up against me?” He chuckled. “I'm extraordinarily all right.”

“I'm a bit tired. I think I need help washing myself.” I pouted and went into the shower.

“Have I told you I absolutely adore you?” He came in after me and pulled me under one of the sprays with him.