7. The Charge of the Light Brigade #2
“It’s no use,” Philippe told his brother. “You know Tenny will never sleep if he can’t see the door. Best give it up.”
Tennyson bristled a little at the comment—which was doubtless Philippe’s intention—but said nothing. He would not apologize for his paranoia. It had kept him alive more times than he could count.
Jean-Claude busied himself with cleaning up the cheese and made an attempt at salvaging the situation to his liking. “I suppose we should turn in, then,” he said, yawning mid-sentence. “Travel always wears me out. Philippe?”
“Yes,” Philippe agreed. “An excellent idea. Good night!”
The brothers fled the room, closing their bedroom door and leaving Tennyson and Louna alone in the loft.
Tennyson sighed. “Did you put them up to that?”
“Of course not,” Louna said, pouring herself another glass of wine. “If I had wanted to get you alone, I would have been more subtle about it.”
Tennyson glanced toward the surveillance screens, which showed rotating views of the surrounding streets and inside the empty garage.
“There’s no need to worry,” Louna said.
Tennyson glared. “I’m not worried.”
“The system will alert us if anyone approaches the building,” Louna went on, unconcerned. “And if you sleep in the main room, you’ll be sure to hear it. Assuming you sleep, that is.”
He doubted he would. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Louna pinned beneath him—pinned beneath Hartmann, beneath Harlow, unable to fight back. All it would take was one moment of inattention, a reaction one second too slow, and she would be gone.
“Mon loup?” Louna said.
He nodded. “I’ll sleep. It’s fine.”
She frowned and opened her mouth, but a faint buzzing sounded from her pocket, and she hesitated just long enough for him to hear that it was a text, not a call. Then she leaned forward and said, “You can always come in by me if you find counting sheep does not work.”
“I’ll manage,” Tennyson said, annoyed all over again at her unintentional reminder of Endymion’s herds. He nodded toward her pocket. “Do you need to check that?”
“Oh no,” Louna said smoothly. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Nothing. Or something she didn’t want him to see?
He thought again of the go bag waiting on the ledge, and his mind sprang to supply explanations for her secrecy.
She could be using Lindsey’s case as cover to steal a Romanian artifact.
She could be running from another enemy she hadn’t told him about.
She could be testing out the durability of the bag’s fabric against the elements.
She could be working for Harlow.
The thought made his stomach clench, but he dismissed it as soon as it came. Louna might have been hiding something, but it wasn’t that. He would know.
But then, he used to think that about Harlow, too.
Louna took a sip, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Has Lindsey answered you?”
The change of topic was more abrupt than usual, but Tennyson accepted it without argument.
He grunted a negative and sat on the couch with his back to her, trying to force his thoughts back onto productive paths.
He heard the clink of her glass against the countertop before her quiet footsteps sounded behind him, and she leaned her hip against the side of the couch.
“He will,” she said simply.
Tennyson shrugged one shoulder. “I said some things when I left. I don’t blame him for not wanting my help.”
“He wants your help,” Louna said.
Tennyson let out a snort and answered without looking at her. “He’s made it pretty clear that that’s not true.”
“I think you would be surprised,” Louna said. She leaned over to pluck his necklace out from under his shirt, letting it drop back against his chest. “The more you love someone, the more it hurts when they leave. It doesn’t mean the love goes away.”
Her voice was steady, but Tennyson knew better than to believe her calm.
She’d told him that she ran away from home at sixteen, and that she’d changed her name to keep her family from finding her.
They never came looking. She’d done the leaving then, and by appearances, had never looked back.
On the surface, she seemed to have moved on.
But Louna was sentimental. There were three paintings on the walls of the loft—Grande Odalisque, The Swing, and The Japanese Garden—each with camellia blossoms hidden in the composition.
They were exquisite copies, and he would not have noticed the addition of the flowers if he had not known to look for them.
Louna had painted them into Anchises as well, and Tennyson suspected it was more than simple favoritism.
Camellias meant something to her, the way his necklace meant something to him.
That was all she was hiding. Pieces of herself, fragments of vulnerability she wasn’t ready to share with him yet. He didn’t hold that against her—there was plenty he was keeping to himself as well. They barely knew each other.
But he wanted to know more. He wanted her to tell him more, more than he’d wanted anything in a long time. It was a selfish hope, the kind he’d tried to purge from himself over the years, and the discovery of it left him feeling off-balanced. He didn’t know what to do with a feeling like that.
And he didn’t want to be another source of disappointment to her.
The more time Louna spent with him, the more danger she was in. He only had three days before Harlow came after them, and Tennyson couldn’t afford to have his attention split. First one problem, then the next. That was how he did things.
He stirred, finding her gaze again and letting himself bask—just for a second—in her attention. “Thank you for helping me,” he said quietly.
A smile as soft as moonlight touched her eyes, and she pressed a kiss to his forehead before pushing away from the couch.
“Good night, mon loup,” she said. Then she turned for her room, leaving him alone in the loft, waiting for Harlow to make his move.