Chapter 12
KANE
Iwalked away from the café like a man on autopilot.
One foot in front of the other. Turn left. Keep moving. Don't look back.
The paper with her number in my pocket was like a live grenade with the pin already pulled.
I couldn't believe I hadn't done it.
Couldn't believe I'd just sat there across from her—this woman who'd looked me dead in the eye and said you with zero hesitation, zero doubt—and let her walk away.
Let her stand up, thank me politely like we'd just discussed the weather, and disappear down a Paris street like she hadn't just turned my entire morning upside down.
Like she hadn't just offered herself.
Like I hadn't been imagining what she'd feel like under my hands since the moment our eyes met in that clinic waiting room and something primal in my brain had whispered mine.
I should have taken her hand. Should have pulled her up from that table and out into the street without a word. Found the nearest hotel. The nearest anything with a door that locked and a bed—or a wall, or a floor, didn't fucking matter.
I should have kissed her until she stopped thinking clearly. Until that careful, polished composure cracked wide open and all that heat I'd seen simmering behind her eyes spilled out, uncontrolled.
I should have fucked her until she forgot her own name. Until grief and loss and bureaucratic nightmares became distant background noise. Until the only thing she could focus on was me and what I was doing to her body and how good I could make her feel if she'd just let me.
But I didn't.
And now I was walking back to the Sanctuary alone, hard as iron and furious with myself for reasons I couldn't fully name.
It wasn't lack of attraction.
Far from it.
I wanted her. Badly. In a way that felt almost violent in its intensity. The kind of want that made rational thought difficult. That made every other consideration fade into background noise. That made me consider doing reckless, stupid things just to get closer to her.
Things I knew better than to consider.
So, why the hell hadn't I acted on it?
I turned down another street, barely registering where I was going, letting muscle memory guide me back toward the townhouse. Paris moved around me—cars honking, pedestrians rushing to work, the faint smell of bread from a bakery I passed—but none of it registered properly.
My mind was still in that café.
Still watching the way her lips curved when she said it. The way her pupils dilated. The slight hitch in her breath, like the confession had surprised even her. Like she'd meant to be more careful but couldn't help herself.
I guess I go after what I want.
And what do you want?
You.
Christ.
Women didn't talk to me like that. Didn't look at me like that.
Most people—men and women both—sensed the danger and kept their distance.
Polite. Careful. Aware on some instinctive level that getting too close to Kane Black was a bad idea.
A survival instinct honed over millennia whispering predator when they looked at me.
But not Ella.
Ella had looked straight at the predator and decided she wanted in, anyway.
Because she's grieving, my brain supplied coldly, cutting through the heat.
Because she's vulnerable.
Because taking advantage of a woman in mourning makes you exactly the kind of man St. Paul's tried to turn you into. The kind who sees weakness and exploits it without hesitation.
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, jaw tight enough to ache.
That was it, wasn't it? The real reason I'd walked away.
Ella was in Paris because her sister had died. Suddenly. Traumatically. She was alone in a foreign city, overwhelmed by bureaucracy and loss and questions that might not have good answers. She was raw. Exposed. Looking for something—anything—to make her feel less alone. Less broken.
And I—
I was dangerous.
Not just physically, though there was that. I knew a hundred ways to hurt someone, kill someone, make them disappear without a trace. Violence lived in my bones. It was the first language St. Paul's had taught me, and I'd never fully unlearned it. Never wanted to.
Fighting was the only thing that made sense anymore. The only place where the rules were clear and the stakes were obvious and you didn't have to pretend to be something you weren't.
But more than that, I was emotionally dangerous.
I didn't do relationships. Didn't do connection.
Didn't let people close enough to matter because people who mattered became liabilities.
Weaknesses. The kind of thing enemies exploited without mercy.
The kind of thing that got you killed—or worse, got them killed while you watched and couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.
And Ella—
Ella deserved better than what I could offer.
She deserved someone stable. Someone whole. Someone who didn't wake up most nights ready to fight ghosts that had been dead for years. Someone who could give her softness and safety and all the normal things normal people wanted from relationships.
Flowers. Dinner reservations. Conversations that didn't involve violence or death or the best way to disappear when someone was hunting you.
Not someone like me.
Not someone who'd spent the previous night beating men unconscious for entertainment. Who found relief in violence. Who felt most at home in underground fight clubs and war zones instead of cafés and polite conversation.
What the hell was I thinking?
That I could be normal for her? That I could pretend to be the kind of man she needed?
Ridiculous.
The Sanctuary came into view, its pale stone facade blending seamlessly with the buildings around it. Elegant. Refined. Everything I wasn't.
I climbed the steps and pressed my palm to the door. The lock recognized the black card in my pocket and clicked open with a sound like a whisper.
Inside, the air was warm and quiet. Civilized.
A facade, just like everything else.
Ellsworth appeared from the sitting room almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting. Probably had been. The man seemed to have a sixth sense for when people came and went. Former military intelligence, maybe. Or just naturally observant.
His eyes went to my face. The fresh stitches along my cheekbone.
"Where did you get that fixed?" he asked mildly, though I caught the faint note of disapproval underneath the politeness.
"Clinic around the corner."
Ellsworth's eyebrow lifted fractionally. "I can perform anything including minor surgery, Mr. Black. Next time, come home and I'll take care of it. Save you the trouble. And the exposure."
Right. Because walking into public clinics left trails. Created records. Made you visible in ways that could be exploited later.
I should have thought of that.
"Good to know."
Though, I wasn't sorry about the clinic.
Wasn't sorry about running into Ella.
Even if I should be.
Even if it complicated everything.
The paper in my pocket seemed to burn hotter, like it was trying to remind me she existed. Like I could forget. Like I hadn't been thinking about nothing else since the moment she'd walked out of that café.
My stomach growled audibly, breaking the moment.
Ellsworth smiled faintly. "There's a fresh assortment from the boulangerie down the street in the kitchen. And a fresh stack of filets in the fridge, should you need them."
Of course, there was.
The man was efficient. Thorough. Probably ex-SAS or something equally competent.
"Thanks."
I headed for the kitchen before Ellsworth could ask any more questions. Before his knowing eyes could pick apart exactly what was bothering me.
The box of pastries sat on the counter—croissants, pain au chocolat, something with almonds I didn't recognize. I grabbed a kitchen towel, filled it with half the box, and headed upstairs to my room.
Away from Ellsworth's knowing looks.
Away from the possibility of conversation.
Away from having to explain things I didn't understand myself.
My room felt quiet. Clean. Untouched. Like no one lived here. Which, I supposed, was accurate. I existed here. I slept here. I used the space.
But I didn't live.
I hadn't lived anywhere in years.
I dropped the towel full of pastries on the bed and ate two immediately, barely tasting them. Just fuel. Just something to fill the hollow feeling in my chest that had nothing to do with actual hunger and everything to do with walking away from something I'd wanted.
Then I stripped down, tossing clothes in a pile by the door.
Did Ellsworth do laundry?
Probably. The man seemed capable of everything short of miracles. I'd have to ask. And while I was at it, I'd ask about his past. Where he'd served. What branch. What operations had shaped him into the efficient, unflappable operator masquerading as a butler.
Later.
Right now, I needed a shower.
Needed to wash away the night. The fights. The clinic. The café.
Her.
The water was scalding, steam filling the small bathroom until I could barely see my own hand in front of my face. I stood under the spray, letting heat cascade over sore muscles, washing away dried blood and sweat and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke from the underground club.
And inevitably, I thought of her.
Ella.
She'd said it out loud.
You.
No hesitation. No coy deflection. No teasing ambiguity or plausible deniability. Just raw honesty delivered with those sad, beautiful eyes locked on mine like I was the only person in the world who mattered in that moment.
I could still see the way her lips had curved when she said it. Not quite a smile. Something more honest than that. More vulnerable. Exposed in a way that made my chest tighten.
The way her pupils had dilated. The way her breath had caught slightly, like the admission had surprised even her. Like she'd meant to be more careful but couldn't help herself when I asked the question directly.
She wanted me.
And I—idiot that I was—had put her off.
Good to know.
What the fuck kind of response was that?
The response of a coward, that's what.