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“And her staff?”
“She owns the salon.”
“Her family?”
Ayla's patience visibly thinned. “Would you like her blood type as well?”
“If it’s relevant.”
The corner of Zeno’s mouth twitched.
Ayla leaned back in her chair and took another slow sip of tea. “She’s been with me for years. She knows when not to ask questions, and she understands discretion.”
“Who cleared her?”
Zeno rolled his eyes before answering.
“I did.”
That ended the argument. It did nothing, however, to ease the tension locked into Demitri’s jaw.
There was nothing romantic about being guarded. Nothing flattering about being hunted so relentlessly that even a haircut required security clearance. And yet my pulse changed as I watched him.
He had barely remained upright through dinner. He needed sleep more than any of us. Still, he stood between me and the windows as though exhaustion were only another enemy he intended to defeat.
Ayla followed my gaze. Women were worse than cameras. They saw what you tried hardest to conceal.
“Bianca is safe.” Ayla’s voice was gentler now. “She would never bring danger into this house.”
A sitting room at the rear of the house had been transformed for Bianca’s visit. Lamps had been brought closer to the fire. Towels were stacked beside a basin hidden behind a folding screen. A high-backed chair stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by the strange equipment required to turn one woman into another.
It should have looked ridiculous inside Zeno’s fortified estate. Instead, it felt comforting. A small island of ordinary life surrounded by armed men and locked gates.
Bianca announced herself before she appeared.
“If either of you drops that case, I’ll make you explain to Zeno why his security budget now includes imported color bowls.”
The two guards escorting her remained wisely silent.
Ayla grinned from the sofa. “That will be Bianca.”
She swept into the room carrying a second case herself. Her dark-blonde hair had been twisted into a loose knot, and tiny gold lightning bolts swung from her ears. She wore fitted black clothes beneath a long coat and moved with the brisk confidence of someone accustomed to powerful people rearranging their lives around her schedule.
She kissed Ayla’s cheek, exchanged a nod with Zeno, and then turned to me. Her expression changed almost immediately. I had learned to recognize pity before it arrived. Bianca saw everything, from my bruises to the swollen lip that had just started to settle. Then she looked directly into my eyes.
“Well,” she clipped, setting down her case. “Nobody mentioned the cheekbones.” She stepped closer and lifted a section of my hair, instantly professional. “Good length. Good condition, considering.”
Considering.
She left the word there without forcing me to explain it.
“This I can work with.”
Demitri had taken up position near the doorway. Not close enough to crowd me. Not far enough to be absent. His body remained angled toward the hall while his attention moved between the windows, the terrace doors, and every sound beyond the room. He was trying to appear as though he watched everything equally, but wasn’t quite successful at convincing anyone.
Bianca followed my gaze to him. Her eyebrows rose.
“Oh.”
