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I shouldn’t stare, but I couldn’t help it.
His eyes remained on the fire for a while before they flicked back to me.
Our eyes locked.
Seconds passed.
I didn’t look away.
He didn’t back down. Didn’t blink. The fire reflected in his eyes, looking like ice-blue flames instead of the inferno of red.
My eyes dropped to the scotch. “I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Beatrice.” I looked up again.
He still stared at me. “Don’t be sorry for things you shouldn’t be sorry for.”
“I just mean…I can tell how much this bothers you.”
He brought the glass to his lips, took a drink, and not a drink like the one I’d taken. It was a big swallow, like water after a long run. “Not your problem.”
“I still care.”
“Don’t.” He looked at the fire again, holding the cool glass against his temple.
I stared at him a while longer, seeing the bitterness in his gaze, the icy cold. “I know it’s not my place to say anything—”
“Then don’t.” His jawline was masked in shadow, making a distinct dark line that separated his chin from his veined neck. He had a hard face, and by hard, I mean so sharp it was like a broken shard of glass. Everything from his fingertips to his furrowed eyebrows. Masculine. Ferocious. Monstrous. His only softness was his blue eyes.
My voice was controlled and low because my restraint overcame my attitude at lightning speed. “The only reason why I’m not gonna tell you off is because you got me out of there.”
His eyes flicked back to mine.
“But that patience isn’t infinite. I killed a Malevolent, and I stabbed many others. I’d have plunged that blade into my stomach and taken my own life in a heartbeat. So, when I get pissed, I’m really pissed.”
His hand slowly lowered the glass from his temple, holding it over the edge of his armrest.
“I’m not your enemy. I’m not your friend. But I am loyal to you. Always.”
The blueness was still, like the calm sea between Spain and Italy, just smooth.
I commanded his entire focus, but once I had it, I was on edge. My breathing grew heavy because he was innately intimidating, whether he was calm or hostile. “And I know you’re loyal to me. So, let’s act like it.”
22
Benton
It was a brutal winter.
The rain turned to hail.
The hail turned to snow.
And I’d never seen it snow in Paris.
The jubilation I felt at my daughter’s return quickly faded. Not because I took her for granted. Not because I missed my own space. But because Beatrice had decided to be a fucking cunt and break my daughter’s heart.
It wasn’t broken yet because she didn’t understand.
But one day, she would.
Beatrice left a goddamn mess behind, and it was my burden to clean it up. I was the one who would have to answer Claire’s questions. I was the one who would have to watch her heartbreak. I was the one who would have to teach my daughter that she wasn’t the problem—her mother was.
It was a lesson I should never have to teach my daughter.
But I was also miserable for another reason.
I had to fulfill my oath to Bartholomew.
Back to the streets. Back to the shadows. Back to the lies.
I was always up early in the morning, even before Claire, so I stood in the kitchen and watched the espresso drip into the cup before the steaming hot water was added. The crème from the beans floated at the top, an Americano just as good as one I could grab from the café down the street.
I leaned against the counter and brought it to my lips for a drink.
Constance was there, her footsteps so light I hadn’t noticed them tap against the hardwood floor. She had deep-brown hair, long and thick, shaggy now because she hadn’t brushed it after she got out of bed. She’d been in my clothes for the past week because she had nothing else. There was no makeup on her face. Up until this point, I’d never looked at her, never paid attention to her, didn’t care for her existence.
But I looked at her now.
She halted on the other side of the large kitchen, her green eyes observing me with the same scrutiny with which I observed her. Our conversation last night ended when I didn’t reply to her words. She’d left her scotch behind and gone to bed.
I held her gaze, mug in hand. “Morning.”
She watched me, her posture relaxing, the fierceness in her eyes fading. “Morning…”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure.”
I used the machine to make another Americano then handed it over.
She took it in her hands and blew the steam off the surface. “That looks just like the espresso machines at the cafés.” She moved to the other kitchen island and leaned against it, blowing on her espresso because it was still too hot to drink.
“I drink a lot of coffee.”
