26. Claire
26
CLAIRE
N ow.
Through the throbbing pressure of my headache, the muddled sound of arguing comes into focus.
I’m lying across the hard leather of my father’s couch.
There are voices. Two voices, arguing back and forth.
“—can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”
“The way I see it, seems like danger follows you around like a goddamn stray cat on a fisherman.”
“ Quiet ,” I say, and they shut up.
Ransom crouches down in front of me. “You okay? Are you hurt?”
I don’t answer him. I’m too busy watching James.
James looks at his phone. He answers a call with a “Yes” and then steps out of the room and into the kitchen to take it.
“Water?” Ransom continues. “Tea? ”
I get to my feet and follow James as though there’s a thread pulling me with him.
My heart pounds in my ears as I push the door open.
The kitchen is drenched in white. James has his back to me. He’s touching his ear.
“—She’s compromised,” he says. His voice is low, serious. “I need a safe house.”
I push myself onto my tiptoes, snatch the earbud from his ear, and fit it in mine instead.
“Hello?” I say quickly. “Who is this?”
I hear nothing on the other end. The other line disconnects immediately.
James turns to me. He holds open his palm. “Claire. Give it back.”
I drop the earbud on the ground, fit it under my shoe, and press down until I feel it crack.
James’s lips tighten. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Someone who can help us.”
“ Who ?” My eyes scan him. “Who are you?”
“You know me, Claire.”
“No. My fiancé is a boring stick-in-the-mud whose idea of a wild Friday night is a 500-piece puzzle. I just watched you kill four men without batting an eye.”
His gaze is measured, his tone cool. “I trained up in self-defense. I suppose it came in handy tonight?—”
“No.” My voice is brittle, and it cracks. “No more lies, James. No more games. Try again.”
He says nothing. He just stares at me like I’m some animal that’s gained the ability to speak.
The kitchen door opens again, and Ransom stands in it. He glances between us, caught in a standoff. “Everything okay in here? ”
Beside me is a stovetop and a block of knives. I pull one of the knives out by the handle and point it at James.
Ransom sucks in a breath. “Claire. Goddammit. Put that thing down.”
James doesn’t even flinch. Those blue eyes just watch me with passive curiosity.
Yelling, I can handle.
Anger. Sadness. Passion.
I can take it.
But James’s glacial indifference is more than I can bear.
So I turn on the only thing he’s ever cared about.
I turn the blade and hold it to my throat. That gets the desired response. A brief, momentary flicker of fear in his eyes. “Tell me who you are,” I say, “or watch me bleed out. Your call.”
James takes a single, slow step toward me. All my muscles go rigid. Suddenly, his hand whips out, and before I can react, he has my wrist in a tight grip.
“Claire.” There’s a deep, dark edge to his voice that swoops through my belly. “Never hold a weapon unless you intend to use it.”
The knife is cold on my throat. With his hand on my wrist, he guides it closer. The blade presses deeper, stinging my skin, and I gasp.
“Get the hell away from her,” Ransom growls.
Ransom starts toward us, but James says, “Be a good boy and stay put.”
Ransom stops. I don’t blame him.
I would, too.
James’s eyes are locked on mine. Those blues are so cold, so compassionless, and I can’t wrap my head around it.
“This,” he says, “will only slice your trachea. You’ll live, but you’ll breathe out of a tube for the rest of your life.” He guides my wrist, shifting the blade to the side of my throat. I can feel my pulse pounding against the thin line of the knife. “If you want to die, you cut here,” he explains as simply as if he were reciting words from a dictionary. “Your carotid artery…” He guides the tip of my knife down my belly until it’s resting right underneath my breasts. “Or the heart.” And the knife travels lower still. The pointy blade scrapes down the center of my body, down my pelvis, and then nuzzles between my legs. He presses the flat of the blade to my thigh. “Or here. Your femoral artery. A slow way to bleed out, but without quick intervention, effective all the same.”
His breath hits my cheek. Then, his voice drops to a low whisper. “Am I still boring you, Claire?”
His accent. It’s gone. No trace of the British gentleman I once knew.
There’s nothing but this hard, dark, American voice now.
He releases me. I’m shaking. I drop the knife, and it clatters to the floor.
Ransom goes to me. He puts an arm around me protectively. His hand pushes my hair back, inspecting my throat. “You okay, princess?”
If he cut me, I don’t feel it.
I don’t feel anything but this heavy ice in my chest.
“Meeting you,” I say, “that day in the café. It wasn’t an accident.”
James grips the granite island to steady himself. He stares at me.
“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“You were waiting for me.”
“Yes.”
“Why? ”
“I’m a special agent. I work for an organization that takes missions no one else will. Your father hired me to keep you safe.”
There it is.
The truth that turns my entire body numb.
I can’t feel anything except this blood rush, this red heat that flames over my face.
He’s been lying to you the entire time, and you were too self-absorbed to see it .
“You. You’re Semper Fi. You’re the one he’s sending this money to.”
“Yes.”
Knowing I’ll get the real answer now, I ask again, “Who are you?”
James—no, the man-formally-known-as-James—straightens up. He leans his tall body against the kitchen counter, turning to face me. He rakes his fingers through his hair and when those blue eyes meet mine again, I don’t know who, or what, I’m looking at.
“My name isn’t James,” he says. “It’s?—”