She would never know. He could take her love and ignore the qualms. He had never bowed to qualms, but then he'd never conducted such a deep betrayal. Enemies typically signed up for their roles, the reason he hadn't killed her as a baby. She had been innocent, and effectively, she still was.
Love wasn't real. He had to believe her infatuation would pass. Love didn't exist. But why did this feel like danger? It was an absurd reaction. How could feelings constitute danger, to the point when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as if an enemy was approaching at his back?
Taking his jacket off, he sat down on the sofa. The drink was still in his hand and he took a deep draft, feeling the warming burn at the back of his throat, but it didn't address the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. When he closed his eyes and leaned his head of the back of the sofa, he became aware of that feeling, the craving for softness. That was the danger, the lure—that craving. It was a siren's call if he’d ever know one. The threat that led people astray, the wanting for softness. It was the only way he could describe it. It had always been there in his most quiet moments, but he had never paid it any heed. Now it seemed to have recognized an avenue and it reasserted itself with what effort it could muster. It made his fingers itch for warm flesh, but if he turned his thoughts to the women he engaged to come to his room, his stomach churned in revolt.
Whatever insanity had taken hold of her was speaking to a spark of insanity in him, that part that responded, growing insistent. It could not be. It would never be. Yet somehow he had insisted she remain within twenty feet of him at all times, except when they were back here, where she belonged downstairs and he had no recourse for demanding her presence. There was a limit to the insanity he was willing to tolerate. It snuck in unbidden when a small change meant nothing, like insisting she ride in his car, be part of the detail that followed into the actual meeting.
These things had to stop. He was betraying himself with these small inconsistencies.
It didn't stop him from wanting to call her up here now, have her walk in through the doors. It had been simple when he'd suspected her of disloyalty. He'd needed to watch her then, but he had been watching for the wrong things. Now he had no excuse for insisting on her presence, but he still did.
Tension sat in his shoulders, in his body. He tried to relax. Shoes came off and he lay back on the couch, placing his head on the arm rest. His hand lay over his stomach and he sighed. This was compromising him, taking over his mindspace. It had to be processed and then let go. He was just going through the processing phase. That was all. This would pass.
Chapter 25:
* * *
The bullets were flying; the rebels were stronger than anticipated. Cassandra retreated into the back of the building, into a room which at some point had been someone's bedroom. They were up on the third floor so it restricted the exits. This was supposed to have been a small cell, but it was much larger, and they had been prepared, having laid traps.
Something blew in her eyes; it stung. Desperately, Cassandra tried to wipe away the stuff that blurred her vision, blinking furiously and using her sleeve to try to wipe it away. A figure was coming toward her and she aimed her weapon at him. A bullet grazed her shoulder, flying her back against a wall. Slowly, her vision returned, but hitting the wall had knocked her gun out of her hand. Diving for it, she received another graze to her leg. Pain seared through her whole body.
Crawling, she made it behind an overturned bed, but the three guys who had her cornered knew she was there. Searching with her sore eyes, she found her weapon about three feet away. She would have to dive for it, except they expecting her to do just that.
Her breath was heavy, overpowering any other noise around her. She tried to listen, hearing steps coming toward her. This was it; she was unarmed and cornered. This was the exact position not to get yourself into and here it was. Perhaps it wasn't a surprise. If you fought, there would eventually come a time when you lost, and loosing had a high price.
Swallowing hard, she reached around for something she could use as a weapon for when they shoved this bed away, finding only a ceramic mug. She grabbed the handle, holding it tight in her fist, fully aware that it would serve as a poor weapon. Still, she would go down fighting. So this was it; her time was up. Please don't make it hurt, she prayed.
Firing started and she shut her eyes. A scream ripped through the space, but it wasn't hers. Someone was fighting the people who had her cornered. Initially she'd thought they were firing at her, but nothing hit. The bed didn't really provide much of a barrier other than to her vision.
Gripping the mug, she held her breath as the bed moved. Time's up, she told herself, but it was Tarquin's face that appeared when the bed was thrown aside. The rebels were dead on the floor.
A gasp of surprise drew into her lungs and she pushed away from the spot where she was supposed to die, rushing into his arms. He smelled of leather and male, solid next to her body. She was supposed to be dead now, but he had saved her.
A grip on her arm pushed her away. "How could you let yourself get cornered like that?" he said viciously, his grip on her arm painful.
"They got me in the eyes with something," she said between heavy breaths. "I couldn't see."
"You were this close to getting yourself killed." He sounded furious. "How am I supposed to trust you to take care of yourself if you get yourself cornered?"
"I'm sorry," she said, feeling ashamed and embarrassed, for both the situation and how she had rushed into his arms. He had saved her. Her insides twisted with the knowledge, a part of her mind searching for meaning.
"Make your way outside and stay there," he ordered sharply and turned away from her, his black coat swinging behind him. As he stepped around the corner, he engaged someone, slicing mercilessly and efficiently. She heard a body drop to the floor, but instinctively knew it was whoever he was fighting.
Cassandra's heart beat so hard it hurt and adrenaline coursed through her body. She needed to fight; she should be fighting with the others—that was her job, but he'd told her to go outside, a direct order, which superseded everything else.
She wasn't a coward to be sent off. People died in these fights and today she had been unlucky. She should have died. Instead he'd rushed in and saved her. His words returned to her, not trusting her to take care of herself. He regretted losing an asset, that was all. They were replaceable, but it took effort to train someone.
Fighting continued around her and she stepped toward the hall. She spotted Remy engaging with a rebel as another came behind him. She fired at the one sneaking up on him, the man dropping to the floor. Remy didn't have time to do more than acknowledged the action and kept fighting. She needed to fight, not to go stand outside like a naughty child. But she was also obliged to do what Tarquin told her to.
The others on the detail didn't really trust her anymore, and now neither did Tarquin. It felt awful, but she understood; she had broken her contract and if she broke that, they figured she was open to doing anything.
She kept standing in the hall, slowly moving toward the staircase heading down. There was a lull in the fighting. Some was still occurring upstairs, but it sounded like the fight was over. Quickly, she rushed downstairs. She had better be there when Tarquin got out.
Sunlight stung her eyes and she frowned as she stood by the head car. The others started to emerge, including Tarquin, who headed right for the back door of the car.
"Get in," he said harshly as he passed her, and she complied, feeling even worse. She'd failed him somehow, failed in general. It stung worse than the knowledge that her life would now be over if it hadn't been for him.
Everyone in the car was silent, which was typical after a fight. Adrenalin still ran high, but there wasn't much to say. Typically, they went out after a fight. It was needed to burn the energy and adrenaline. Drinking, fucking, whatever you had to do. Everyone had different coping mechanisms.
The ride wasn't long and they arrived outsid
e the Chartrice residence. Cassandra got out with the others, feeling Tarquin's presence behind her as she walked up the steps to the entrance. She always felt him, now also able to remember the feel of pressing her body to his. Heat flared in her cheeks. A reaction that had been grossly inappropriate and entirely unprofessional. He'd pushed her away, gently, but firmly. She just wanted to sit down on her bed and sink her head into her hands.
They entered the hall, and everyone started to dissipate, seeking wherever they spent time when they weren't needed.
"Not you," Tarquin said and Cassandra found him looking at her. Everyone was looking too, but soon realized it was none of their business. They probably thought this was part of her punishment for running away, and just desserts. She looked around and they were alone in the cavernous hall. "In the training room," he said and turned, walking ahead of her with firm, long strides.
As she walked into the room, he unbuttoned his coat and lay it across a chair, leaving him in a white shirt and waistcoat.
"Your training has been remiss," he said, taking his gloves off.
"I had an unlucky day."
He threw her a sword. "There is no such thing," he said and turned to her, his eyes blazing. She couldn't look away. Stepping forward, he swung for her. She deflected it, feeling the power in it pushing her back. Why was he doing this? Was this some form of punishment?
Part of her was ecstatic to be here, just be in his presence, to feel his eyes on her. Another was utterly terrified and it wasn't that he was swinging at her.
He stopped moving toward her. "Were you trying to harm yourself?"
A smiled tugged at her lips. The thought had occurred to her, but not today. "No," she said. "They blinded me and got the upper hand."
"You need to do better."
There was nothing she could say. He swung again and she ducked out of the way. There was nowhere to hide in this room, just floor and mirrors. Then suddenly he stepped away, turning his back on her, pacing back and forward across the wooden floor. "What am I supposed to do with you? You would have died today. I can't watch you when we're in a fight."
"Then don't watch."
He turned, facing her. Again she felt his eyes like a punch in the gut.
"There is no reason you should feel responsible to," she continued, looking away and then down at the floor. She had developed these feelings and she was the one compromising herself. If there are any consequences, she should bear them alone.
She wanted this to stop, her heart ached, but he wasn't letting her go to slip away to lick her wounds.
Quickly he came for her again and she dodged his blade, deflected another.
"You're not fighting," he yelled.
"I can't fight you," she yelled back. He raised his eyebrows at her impetuousness.
"And why not?"
She dropped her sword, feeling utterly exasperated. "Because I can't. My instincts won't let me fight you." It was the raw, honest truth. Of the things she wanted to do, fighting him, keeping him away, were not remotely close.
He moved closer, watching her intently. She could see his black boots in her field of vision. "You need to stop this. I am the least appropriate person you should have feelings for."
A hopeless laugh escaped her. "Thank you for the advice. You need to stop defending me."
He only glared at her, his green eyes deep and mesmerizing. She forced her gaze away. "I would have done that for anyone on my team," he said.
"Would you? Really? Why am I here? Why do you keep me within six feet any time we leave the building?"
"Because I don't trust you."
"Are you sure, because we've established quite well that I am incapable of raising my sword to you? You keep me here. Why are you keeping me near you?" It was a question that had sat forefront in her mind for days. "I'm not the one keeping me here, you are. What do you want from me?"
"I don't want anything."
"Then let me go," she shouted.
"No."
"You can't keep me like this; I can't function. I don't sleep, I can't eat. And I am no good as security. I compromise you; I compromise myself." It was utterly unfathomable why he was doing this. "What do you want from me?" she said as raw as she felt.
"I told you: I don't want anything."
Something clicked into place. "I don't believe you." Clarity was sweeping painful and cloying fogginess from her mind.
"It doesn't matter what you believe, Miss Wilkes."
She took a step forward and he took one back. The action spoke a thousand words. He feared her. It was the most absurd thing she'd ever observed. What threat could she possibly pose to him? He feared her, but he wouldn't lose her. There was something he wanted from her, but wouldn't let himself have.
"I love you," she said, more to see how he reacted. It was true, but it wasn't something she felt comfortable admitting, even as he knew it.
He didn't move. "Miss Wilkes. I'm a stone cold killer." He looked up at her with complete seriousness.
"You don't have to be."
"This is what I am."
"You're more than that. There's more when you think no one's looking. I've seen it."
He just stared at her, a tight expression on his face.
"What are you doing this for?" she said, indicating around her. "There is nothing here. It leads to nothing. Power is just power; it leads to nothing. You can walk away."
He looked pained for a moment. "I can't."
"Yes, you can. There is nothing stopping you. Come with me. Let's just go and never come back. We don't need anything," she beseeched him. She could see that part of him now, the part that wanted to escape—that rawness was in his eyes now. That was the part that had called her with such strength she couldn't escape. That's why she was here, to save him, to provide him with an avenue out.
She stepped closer and he looked down, refusing to give her his eyes. "We'll run; we'll never come back. Just be with me. This happened for a reason. It's supposed to be."
His face as drawn and when he looked up, his eyes were haunted. Leaning up, she touched her lips with his, feeling spears of desire shooting down her whole body, suffusing her mind. She'd fought so hard against this, but it was no use. She belonged to him. Her eyes closed and he felt him yield to the kiss, letting her in. The softness was so sweet she felt she'd implode from it. Pleasure flooded her entire existence. Her tongue caressed his, her lips moving against his mouth. He tasted divine. With urgency, his hands now clenched her to him, kneading at her back.
Sharply, he stepped back, pulled away. Her mind screamed its loss.
"I can't. Not with you." The statement felt like a punch in the gut. It physically hurt, threatening her knees. "There are things in my past that I can't overcome."
No, he couldn't be pulling away, not when they were so right together. His words slowly sunk into her mind. Yes, there were probably a million things he'd done that weighed on his mind. There was no getting around the fact that he'd been a brutal man, a fighter without mercy. But there was a part of him that wished to be free, and that meant something.
"I am not a good man," he continued. "I have done terrible things and there are obstacles I will never be able to overcome. I can never be with you." His voice sounded coarse, but there was no room for doubt in what he was saying. "I have kept you here selfishly, knowing there is nothing I can offer you."
"That's not true. There's nothing that can't be forgiven."
"No, there really is," he said with a smile, stepping forward and cupping her face in his hand. "Some things must be paid for."
She didn't understand.
His thumbs stroked down her cheeks. "You should run now. Go. I won't chase you this time. Forget about me and this, and just turn your back."
New tears stung her eyes, and apparently she'd already been crying because her cheeks were sodden.
"You will go and you will forget," he continued. "I'm releasing you."
It was what she'd asked for a few minutes earlie
r, but for a short time she'd seen another possibility, one he wasn't going to take. It ripped her to pieces, forced the air out of her lungs. She couldn't stay. Seeing him hurt too much. This was now an all or nothing thing and he'd chosen nothing. She closed her eyes, fighting the hurt that threatened to consume every part of her.
"You should change your name and become someone new. Felicity, I think." He studied her face, which was now an utter mess. "It suits you." Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead, then took a step back.
He was leaving no room for argument and she knew that it was the best thing—if he wasn't going to let them be together. It still hurt like hell. If she'd thought things were painful before, they were agony now and the only way she could ever get past this was to be away from here—from him.
Pulling herself together, she walked past him to the door.
"And Felicity," he said. She turned to look at him. "Don't ever come back to Paris." She stared at him for a moment. "Promise."
She nodded, taking one last look before leaving.
Chapter 26:
* * *
Through the window, the garden was frozen outside, bare branches showing no signs of life. Frost formed crystals on the grass, sparkling in the light of nighttime Paris. It was beautiful and quiet.
"How are you?" Tarquin heard his father's voice behind him.
"Well," Tarquin said. "Is there something that needs to be done?" Normally his father sought him out when action was needed.
"No," Adaeus said and moved to Tarquin's desk, leaning back and crossing his arms. Adaeus sighed audibly, but said nothing.
"How are the negotiations going?" Tarquin finally said, uncomfortable with the silence.
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