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He was familiar with that tone. The one that said Win wasn’t happy to see him.
* * *
There was a man—wasn’t there always a man?—who held Win’s life in his hands. A man he hadn’t spoken to in so long, he should have forgotten the sound of his voice. Win hadn’t. A man he’d worked for for years, ever since that same man issued Win a choice all those years ago.
Mathieu Pascal had been breathtaking since the very first time Win laid eyes on him, but age had somehow made him even more so. Win tried not to be taken in by the other man’s dark brown skin and clear, bottomless brown eyes. He’d had his hair styled in a clean buzz cut with faded sides, the top complete with waves, and it artfully set off his square face with its prominent cheekbones and angular jaw. He was taller than Win by more than a few inches and bigger too. He had wide shoulders and a broad chest that used to make Win feel surrounded, almost smothered—in the best possible way—whenever he’d found himself wrapped up in those strong arms.
Mathieu held all of Win’s secrets in his eyes, all his shame, and darkness. It was why Win could never look at him. To look at him was to remember. Win couldn’t afford to remember the shit from back then; he had way too much to lose in the here and now.
That gaze was on him now.
They sat side by side in the back of the vehicle parked—hidden—in an alley. They were closer than they’d been in months. A distance that had been all Win’s doing, but Mathieu didn’t fight it.
He never did.
They were on opposite sides now, he and Mathieu. Or they were supposed to be. Because Win married Mathieu’s enemy. And every time Mathieu turned his gaze on him, Win felt his disappointment. His questions. Mathieu wouldn’t ever ask why and Win would never tell.
He stared straight ahead, pretending the man next to him wasn’t there.
“Win.”
He flinched. Swallowed.“There is a man hiding somewhere in your territory…if I don’t have him, or his whereabouts, in the next twenty-one minutes and fifteen seconds, your forger will die.”The words Stavros had spoken to Mathieu over the phone echoed in his head. He couldn’t unhear them. He didn’t turn to Mathieu when he asked, voice hoarse, “Would you have done it? Would you have let him kill me this time?”
5
Mathieu gaveno outward sign that he was affected in any way by Win’s question, but Win knew him well. The air around them—already restrictive—turned heavier.
It was a weight pushing down on Win’s head and shoulders.
Still, he kept his head up, kept his shoulder squared and his chin high, when he asked again, “Would you have let Stavros kill me? Did you think about letting him do it?”
There used to be a time when he’d been a priority to Mathieu, when no one would have ever thought to do Win harm. Those days were gone. He wondered if Mathieu saw Stavros’ resurfacing as a way to get rid of Win for good. It couldn’t sit well with Mathieu to have Win out there, a loose end he could never tie up.
Unless someone like Stavros came along and did the job for him?
He needed to know if that was the case. If Mathieu had grown tired of...whatever this dance was that they did.
“Never ask me that again.” The milder Mathieu’s tone got, the angrier he was. “I will never allow anyone to hurt you.”
A nice declaration, but the unspoken hovered between them. Win didn’t have to remind Mathieu that he’d said those words before and somehow Win had still found himself hurt with no Mathieu around to offer an assist. He’d learned then he couldn’t put stock in Mathieu’s promises.
“Win. Look at me.”
There’d been a time, too, when that request wouldn’t have been necessary, but they weren’t the same men they’d been back then. They’d changed. A change Mathieu had forced on them when he’d made his choice so long ago.
Now, it hurt to look at him. Seated side by side in the back seat of Mathieu’s SUV, it felt as if thousands of miles and a dozen years separated them.
But when Win brought his gaze to Mathieu’s, all he saw were the things he missed, the things he used to have, and the man who took it from him.
“Are you really okay?” Mathieu asked.
“Yes,” he answered curtly. “Why did Stavros take me?”
“You know why. He wanted information.”
Win made a frustrated sound. “How did he know we were still connected?” The way Stavros and the other guy—Daniel Nieto—had spoken, they knew Win and Mathieu shared a history that had nothing to do with the one particular night when Mathieu had saved him in the motel room.
Mathieu cocked his head, expression mild. Win used to like looking at him at one point, but now it took effort to do so. “What’s on your mind? Let it out.”
