by May Dawson
“There.” He releases me and takes a step back, clearly pleased with his handiwork. “I have to go piece-by-piece or you’ll end up looking like someone I know.”
“It’s worrisome you have a system for this.”
His lips part as if he’s going to shoot back something, but instead he asks, “You really plan to start over under a fake name after all this?”
“I can’t go on like this, can I?” I ask.
“You could be useful.” He moves to the shelves of relics, searching for something, and finally picks up a reflective silver box. He glances at his own face, muttering his spell again. He blurs, and I shake my head, trying to clear away the wrongness of watching Mycroft change his face in front of me. His skin lightens and his close-cropped hair grows longer, curling up under his ears, as his chiseled jaw shrinks.
“What do you think?” He takes his jaw in his hands and twists it as if he’s cracking his neck. When he turns to me, he’s a man of average height, just a few inches taller than me.
“You’re significantly less scary than you were before.” But I’m going to miss looking at Mycroft’s gorgeous face. Not that it matters, I suppose. Since there’s never any emotion to change that unsmiling expression, his face is easily committed to memory.
“That’s the idea.”
It’s only when we’ve made our way halfway up the concrete stairwell that he asks, “I’m scary?”
“You know you’re scary. Don’t tell me you don’t love it.”
“To them.” He makes a casual hand gesture that seems to encompass the known universe. It wouldn’t be hard for me to believe Mycroft is the bogeyman Ravengers warn their babies about.
Although I don’t answer him, my lips part in a smile. Mycroft cares what I think. He doesn’t want me to be scared of him.
Well, I’m not.
He takes a few bounding steps up the stairs and grabs the door handle, pulling the door open for me. By the time he turns around, I meet his eyes with a gaze as stony-faced as he is. I hope.
I don’t intend to do the talking for the two of us. He can try dealing with his own brand of silence.
An hour later, Mycroft and I sit at a table in a café on the square, across from a three-story building which houses a bakery and a set of apartments. Our table is against a wrought-iron fence, from which hangs wrought-iron window boxes. The prickly gray stems inside are heavy with red and orange blooms. The trees around the square blaze red and orange, too, and leaves shuffle across the cobblestones, making a whispering rattle whenever the wind rises and pushes them along.
All around us are other, real couples, having a leisurely brunch. The couple seated at the table next to us is so deeply in love, they can barely keep from throwing the plates of pancakes to the floor and climbing on the table. As they hold hands, the man strokes his thumb against the inside of the woman’s wrist. She, in turn, slips her foot out of her shoe and rubs it against his ankle, delving under his pants leg. It’s distracting me from the stakeout.
Then the waiter sets their plates in front of them. Their hands remain linked, and they dedicate themselves to eating single-handed, their forks occasionally scraping awkwardly across the plates. I raise my eyebrows as I turn back to Mycroft. Lord help me, I’ll never be that in love. I do adore my breakfast.
Mycroft lifts the pot and pours himself a fresh cup of tea, then sets it down without offering any to me.
I take the last sip from my now-empty cup before I say, “You can tell you never went to boarding school.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you can tell you never went to boarding school.” I tap the top of the tea kettle; my fingernails making a ting against the ceramic. “You’re supposed to offer to the table when you serve yourself.”
“Are your hands broken? You can’t serve yourself?”
“Of course I can.” Forget I said anything. I was just teasing.
For a few long seconds, we stare at each other. I have good intentions to let it go. But Mycroft’s blank expression is so irritating to me as he sips his tea that instead, I blurt out, “What is your malfunction, anyway?”
“Didn’t we just have this argument?”
The waiter arrives just then, giving us a small bow and a bright smile as he clutches his pad to his aproned waist. “Hello, have we decided?”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow.
“We have.” I’m not sure if the waiter’s timing has saved Mycroft, or me. I don’t want to repeat our argument. “I’d like the poached eggs and bacon, please. Wheat toast.”
“She’ll have an extra side of bacon,” Mycroft says before he launches into his own order.
“Excuse me.” I smile at the waiter when Mycroft finishes. “I don’t need extra bacon.”
“Who passes up extra bacon?” Mycroft asks.
Normally, I’d agree with him.
“I don’t need it,” I say through my smiling teeth.
The waiter glances between us, his smile frozen, and takes a step back.
“Fine. Give me the extra bacon,” Mycroft says. “Then she can eat it.”
The waiter flees.
Mycroft offers me just as tight and fake a smile. He matches mine with careful exactness. “Is that what you learn at boarding school too? To smile when you don’t mean it?”
Mycroft’s fake smile is jarring; it looks so unnatural on his face. My cheeks burn, feeling foolish, but I’m committed now. “I learned to put people at ease.”
The waiter forgot the menus in his haste; clearly, neither Mycroft nor I am a success at making people comfortable today. I gather the menus and tap them on the table to make them even before I lay them at the edge.
“I don’t do fake,” he says.
“You don’t do nice,” I correct. “And you don’t need to order for me.”
“You’re too thin.”
“Oh, see, now you’re making it worse. Being bossy is bad enough. Criticizing my body? Not an improvement.”
“I’m not criticizing. You’re beautiful. I already said that once today.”
“That doesn’t make things better.” It kind of does. I draw a woman’s curves in the air with my two hands, which is also the kind of thing they don’t do at boarding school. “Let me guess. You prefer your women curvy?”
“I prefer my women shaped exactly like you.”
His voice is so deadpan that I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or if he means it. I tug on the ends of my hair. “Seriously, though. What is your malfunction?”
He shrugs as he sits back. “Good thing that it doesn’t matter if we look like a loving couple or a fighting one.”
When he speaks, there’s a faint sheen in the air between us. It puzzles me before I understand he’s put a spell on his words, so only I can hear him.
There’s no reason for us to fight. I can’t enchant my own words, so I shake my head, looking away. At least it’s natural for me to stare at the building while I’m trying to ignore my date.
A woman looks over her shoulder as she reaches the blue door alongside the entrance to the shop. She unlocks it with a key and lets herself in.
I glance toward Mycroft to be sure he saw that, even though he’s still looking at me.
He picks up the kettle, and this time, he fills my cup first. “Stay cool.”
Of course, etiquette would dictate he ask before he fills my cup, but whatever. I’ll take it. His big hand sets the heavy teakettle down smoothly on the white linen tablecloth as if it weighs nothing to him. The tea seems like a peace offering.
The waiter arrives, carrying plates of food, just as the blue door swings open again. The woman steps out as he sets my poached eggs and bacon in front of me; the smell makes my mouth water. The bacon is perfectly cooked, soft in the center and crispy along the outside. A little swan carved out of cantaloupe swims on one side of my plate. Large fresh-ground flakes of salt and pepper cover the trembling white eggs.
It’s a shame to leave this food, and
I purse my lips as I look up to Mycroft, not sure what we should do next.
“Stay here,” he murmurs to me, his words wrapped in that shimmer of magic. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Don’t worry.”
My eyes widen at the warning, a second before he jumps to his feet. He knocks into the table, which lurches, and I grab my plate before the food dumps into my lap.
“I can’t do this!” He explodes. “I can’t sit here and pretend one more goddamn minute that I still love you!”
Then he turns and storms out. He slams the ornate metal gate behind him, and it bounces before it swings meekly shut. The couple at the next table finally break contact, twisting in their seats to watch him.
The waiter watches him go, wide-eyed, then turns his gaze to me. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” My voice comes out thready, no matter how glib my words are. I’m playing this part perfectly. I swallow hard, and my voice is even on the second try. “Just go ahead and give me his bacon. Thanks.”
By the time the waiter has deposited all the plates on the table, Mycroft has disappeared into the distance, trailing the woman. It was a smart move, I suppose.
He was acting. But as I chew and swallow, playing the part of the dumped girlfriend over brunch, my throat thickens. There’s nothing for me to cry about. Even if everyone staring at me—and then hastily glancing away—thinks there is.
A tear slides down my cheek, trickling salt into the corner of my lips. I lift my fancy napkin to wipe away the tears.
When I lower it again, there’s a man standing across from me.
“All the tables are full,” he says. “Would you mind if I sat with you?”
I drop my napkin into my lap and sniffle one last time, glancing around at the crowd. Is this really just a man who wants some eggs and toast? I cannot cope with the True right now.
“Of course I don’t mind.” I very much mind. “Please sit.”
He winks at me, and I frown back, trying to figure out where I know him from.
Chapter 13
“So your boyfriend is a real idiot, huh?” His smile is mischievous as he looks at me over the brim of his tea cup. The smile rounds his cheekbones in a way that’s very nice to look at. He’s so familiar, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“He is,” I say absently as I study him.
He has mussed blond hair that reminds me of Cax, and there are those cheekbones, and his eyes are a deep, bright blue, sparkling with light. The minute I recognize him, Airren grins and leans back in his chair, as if he understands the look on my face.
He did a rush job, I guess, because that definitely is Cax’s hair, and not Airren’s usual short, spiky black hair. But to anyone who has not studied his face as obsessively as I have, the disguise would be good enough. He’s even patched the scar across his eyebrow, which I miss—it gives his face a roguish bit of character.
“Feel free to eat his food.” I gesture to the plate.
“Thanks.” He shakes his napkin into his lap and cuts across Mycroft’s golden-brown pancakes. “Your man has a sweet tooth despite his rough exterior, huh?”
“He is most definitely not my man,” I say drily. “As the entire restaurant can testify.”
“Maybe it hasn’t been his day,” he says. “Or his year.”
“You don’t have to justify him to me. He’s a big boy, I’m sure he can explain himself if he feels like it.”
“Some men don’t do well talking about their feelings.”
“Some men don’t do well not getting punched in the face.”
The woman at the table across from us leans over and touches my arm. “Good for you, girl.”
I pull back before my thoughts catch up to my reflexes, but I flash a smile her way. I feel the tears drying on my cheeks when I smile. “Thank you. No great loss—look, I found a potential replacement already.”
Airren quirks an eyebrow at me.
The restaurant is so small, with every conversation is overhead. We have to keep our cover.
“So what’s your name, potential boyfriend?” I ask Airren sprightly.
Even if we’re pretending to be two different people, flirting with Airren is comfortable and easy. Maybe it’s more comfortable and easy now than it is when I have to be Tera Donovan.
The couple across from us pays their bill. When the man has opened the gate for her and she has gone out, smoothing her skirt over her legs, I hear her as she steps in close to him.
His hand goes to her lower back, his head dipping down as she not-whispers, “Wasn’t that so romantic? Wouldn’t it be nice if they got married?”
I almost inhale my tea. Hot Early Gray stings my sinuses as I set the cup down with a clatter onto the saucer.
Airren’s grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I don’t know yet that you’re a nice man.”
“I’m definitely not a nice man.” His voice is a low, sexy growl that does twisty things to my insides. I can’t look at the rest of Airren’s face—it bothers me to see his face wrong—but I stare into those eyes I’d know anywhere.
His knee brushes mine against the table, and I tense. In the nice kind of way—the way that’s all butterflies and a bit of an ache.
I crinkle my nose at him. “I’m not a very nice girl. So perhaps we’ll turn out to be a match.”
“You seem like a nice girl,” he says skeptically. “You’ll have to convince me otherwise.”
The café is beginning to clear out; the rush has passed. I glance away from Airren, tucking my hair back behind my ear. The sun has come out, very bright on this fall day, and it shines off the sheets of water flowing from the fountain in the center of the square. We’re surrounded by neat three- and four-story stone or brick buildings, all a bit narrow, as if they were built before modern conventions. The brick and stone is faded, but shutters and doors are painted in bright colors to make up for it: deep blues and reds and greens.
Airren reaches into his pocket for his wallet and tucks money under his plate. When he stands, dropping his napkin onto his chair, he holds his hand to me.
“Shall we see?” There’s a distinctly mischievous cast to his lips.
Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s the rule-follower—the good Divide Marine—or a complete rogue. Maybe he’s both by turns.
I set my fingertips on his scarred palm. He reaches down with his free hand and turns my chair away from the table, the feet scraping over the cobblestones, before he pulls me gently to my feet.
“I don’t know if I should go with you, stranger.” I rest my free hand on his chest. “I was nice when I let you share my table, after all. I’m not sure I should stop being nice.”
Airren’s heart beats steadily against my palm. This close, I can smell the creamy scent of the gel he uses in his hair and his warm, spicy aftershave. His full lips and big jaw are in my line of vision as he smiles.
“Nice or not, I’m sure you’re perfect.” His thumb traces the line of my jaw before he tilts my chin up. His grip is sure and possessive.
No one thinks Tera Donovan is perfect. My lips part in a rueful smile.
His mouth grazes mine.
I nuzzle his lower lip, no longer rueful. His hand holds my face still as he kisses the corner of my mouth, and resists me when I try to turn my face to kiss him full-on.
He draws my lower lip into his mouth, tasting me thoughtfully, right there on the sun-soaked sidewalk. A thrill of longing shoots through me, followed a second later by a worming sense of embarrassment. My fingers close, gripping a handful of his crisp shirt, despite having been raised to act better than this.
But it’s for my cover. It’s for the Crown. Right?
His tongue traces the inside of my lower lip. The sensation is something deeper than a tickle—something that sends sparks flying straight to my suddenly throbbing core.
His hand drops to my hip and spans it confidently, his fingers press
ing against the curve of my ass. “What do you think? Do you still feel deeply compelled to be nice at all times?”
“Well,” I manage, despite the sudden weakness in my knees, “A woman should be complicated. Being nice constantly would be a waste.”
“Absolutely.” He nods, his deep blue gaze still holding mine. He draws me behind him through the gate.
Our hips bump, then separate as he leads me across the square toward the shop alongside the blue door. The tops of the windows are frosted, and etched in the glass is the word Bakery. There’s no other store name—people must just know that this is the bakery in the square—and before we reach the door, I breathe in the scents of freshly baked bread and buttercream frosting and the vanilla-sugar note of cake and cookies.
The windows are filled with loaves of bread on one side and an ornate display of cookies and cupcakes on trays in the other. When Airren opens the door for me, the bells on the door ting softly.
The store is busy. One worker restocks the cases as two more help customers. A woman at the counter picks out cookies with enthusiastic assistance from two children who appear to have already consumed a week’s worth of sugar. “Those sugar-dusted tea cookies too, please,” she says as we brush between her and the old woman behind her, whose expression is as cheerful as one would expect from someone buying only rye bread in a store that smells like this.
Airren leads me so confidently toward the back of the store that no one questions him. He lifts the curtain and it brushes over my hair as we step into an alcove between the kitchen and the shop. To one side is a door, and to the other side are dimly lit stairs. At the top is a closed door, the paint blistered and worn.
He squeezes my hand and drops it, since the stairway is too narrow for us to walk side-by-side. The treads squeak under his quick footsteps . The door is locked, and he doesn’t hesitate, slipping a small leather case from the inside of his jacket.