Chapter 26
KANE
We walked the three streets over to Maison de Verre at an easy, unhurried pace, her hand still warm in mine.
The place was small and intimate in that particularly Parisian way. The kind of restaurant you'd walk past a dozen times without really noticing unless you knew exactly what you were looking for and why it mattered.
But once you stepped inside, you immediately understood why Rose had kept coming back here, specifically.
Why this had become her place.
Exposed brick walls gave it character and history.
Dark wood tables polished smooth from years of use and countless meals.
Soft amber lighting even in the afternoon that made everything feel warm and private and slightly removed from the city outside.
A large chalkboard menu written in careful French script hung behind the small bar.
The waiter—older, distinguished, with that particular Parisian ability to be simultaneously welcoming and faintly judgmental—seated us near the window overlooking the street and handed us leather-bound menus before disappearing with practiced efficiency.
I scanned the options with genuine interest and appreciation.
Confit de canard with crispy skin and white beans. Steak frites with herb butter. Moules marinières in white wine and shallots. Ratatouille. Coq au vin. Boeuf bourguignon.
Simple French classics executed properly. The kind of place that understood technique mattered more than innovation.
The kind of cooking I actually respected.
Ella studied her menu thoughtfully, then glanced up at me with open curiosity.
"What are you getting?"
"Everything," I said with complete seriousness.
She laughed, the sound lighter and more genuine than I'd heard from her in days. "Everything? Really?"
"I like to cook. This is research. Professional development."
Her eyebrows went up in genuine surprise that was almost comical. "You cook? Like, actually cook cook?"
"Yeah. Really cook."
"I ..." She paused, clearly recalibrating something fundamental in her mental image of me. "I guess I just assumed if you cooked at all, it would be like ... grilling burgers or something basic like that. Or maybe whole hogs on a firepit."
I leaned back slightly in my chair, studying her with barely contained amusement. "Is that assumption because of my size?"
She surprised me completely—and delighted me even more—by reaching under the table, hand finding my thigh first, then sliding deliberately higher with clear intent until her fingers wrapped confidently around my cock through my jeans and squeezed.
Not hard. Not painful.
Just enough pressure to make her point crystal clear.
"I like your size just fine," she said quietly, eyes holding mine with that devastating mix of innocence and deliberate intent that was absolutely going to kill me, eventually.
Heat shot straight through me, like lightning striking.
Fuck.
I was so completely, irrevocably into this girl it wasn't even remotely funny anymore.
What an absolute anomaly she was turning out to be.
Sweet and sexy in perfectly balanced measure. Bold enough to grab my cock in a restaurant, but vulnerable enough to wear her dead sister's sweater for comfort. Direct, but soft underneath all that bravery.
I never in a million years could've predicted any of this happening to me.
Not in any timeline or scenario I'd ever imagined for my life.
My existence had always been defined by war and fighting. Strategy and survival and staying perpetually one step ahead of whatever threat was coming next.
Not leisurely afternoon lunches in Paris with a woman who made my chest feel uncomfortably tight. Not easy small talk over wine about cooking techniques and favorite ingredients. Not someone who made me want impossibly normal, domestic things I'd convinced myself I'd never have or deserve.
But sitting there across from her, watching her smile at something the waiter said, I found that I genuinely enjoyed the small talk.
Actually valued the ordinary, unhurried rhythm of ordering food and discussing nothing more complex or dangerous than whether the duck or the steak sounded better today.
Is this what peace actually felt like?
Real peace, not just absence of immediate conflict?
I'd always laughed at the word before. Dismissed it as something for other people. Something weak that got you killed.
But this ... this felt right in a way I couldn't adequately explain.
Like something I didn't know I'd been missing until it appeared.
We took our time once the food started arriving in careful succession.
I ordered half the menu without exaggeration—duck confit with impossibly crispy skin, steak frites cooked perfectly rare, mussels in white wine and garlic to start, a side of ratatouille just to analyze the technique.
Ella ordered something lighter, claimed she wasn't particularly hungry after everything, but spent the entire meal stealing deliberate bites from my various plates and making small satisfied sounds that made me want to cook for her properly in an actual kitchen.
Feed her until she made those sounds on purpose.
The waiter moved through the small dining room with that perfect French balance I appreciated—attentive enough to anticipate needs but never hovering awkwardly, appearing exactly when needed with fresh bread or wine refills but never interrupting actual conversation.
We talked about genuinely nothing important.
Her favorite foods and why. My total, somewhat embarrassing inability to bake anything despite being reasonably competent with savory dishes. Whether Paris had already ruined American coffee for her permanently.
Normal things.
Human things.
The kind of easy conversation I'd never really had with anyone before.
All in all, it was shaping up to be an absolutely perfect Paris afternoon.
The kind of afternoon normal people got to have regularly.
Then I saw Ellsworth walking across the street outside, and everything shifted.
My entire body went on immediate, instinctive alert.
Every muscle tensing automatically. Every sense sharpening to combat readiness.
I realized with sudden, deeply uncomfortable clarity that I'd left my phone back at Rose's apartment—still in my jacket pocket where I'd forgotten it completely.
Unreachable. No way for anyone to contact me directly if something had developed.
Sloppy. Dangerous. Unlike me.
Ellsworth moved with his usual controlled precision—shoulders back, stride measured and purposeful, expression carefully neutral.
Like absolutely nothing was wrong.
Like he was just a well-dressed older gentleman walking with casual purpose through a pleasant Parisian afternoon.
But I could feel it underneath the flawless performance.
The deliberateness in his gait that went beyond normal walking. The way his eyes found mine immediately through the restaurant window without seeming to search or scan. The slight tension in his jaw that most people would never notice but I'd learned to read.
Something significant had happened.
Something important enough to send him here personally instead of simply waiting for me to eventually return to the Sanctuary.
He entered the restaurant smoothly, approached our table with perfect military posture barely disguised as civilian politeness, and stopped at a respectful distance.
"Apologies for the interruption," he said with that crisp British accent.
I tried somewhat awkwardly to introduce him, brain scrambling for a title that would make any kind of reasonable sense to Ella without revealing too much.
"This is ... Ellsworth. He's the—" I hesitated visibly, caught between truth and necessary cover story.
"Butler," Ellsworth supplied with practiced, unshakeable calm. "At the residence where Mr. Black is currently staying during his time in Paris."
Ella blinked several times, clearly processing this unexpected information. "Butler?"
"Indeed, Miss." He turned his full attention back to me with meaning. "I'm afraid there's a rather urgent message I must relay to Mr. Black. Would you mind terribly if he stepped away for just a brief moment?"
Ella nodded slowly, reading the subtext even if she didn't fully understand it yet. "Of course."
But there was a look in her eyes that I couldn't quite decode completely.
Uncertainty, definitely. Concern. Maybe growing suspicion about what exactly I was involved in.
I wasn't sure if her reaction was because a British butler had just appeared completely out of nowhere, or because she was picking up instinctively on the genuine tension underneath all the careful politeness.
Probably both.
She was far too observant and intelligent to miss the wrongness entirely.
I stood, excused myself quietly with an apologetic look, and followed Ellsworth outside to a spot about twenty meters down the street where we'd have adequate hearing space from passing pedestrians.
"I left my phone at the apartment," I said immediately, explaining the communication breakdown. "Completely forgot it."
Ellsworth ignored the admission entirely, getting straight to what actually mattered.
"The man you killed," he began without preamble or diplomatic softening.
"He wasn't just hired muscle or local talent.
He was genuinely well-placed within a certain prominent European organization.
One known internationally for its extensive reach, remarkably long institutional memory, and very particular reluctance to forgive perceived transgressions against its various interests. "
I understood immediately what he wasn't saying directly out loud.
Mafia. Or something functionally identical operating under different cultural branding.
"Why does that specifically matter to us?" I asked carefully.
"Because Connor believes he's finally connected the relevant dots we've been missing. The organization behind the resurgence of your alma mater appears to have significant operational ties to this particular group. Substantial financial backing. Shared infrastructure. Active protection."
My jaw tightened as implications cascaded rapidly. "I'm guessing that means the situation is considerably worse than we thought."
Ellsworth nodded once, still maintaining that unshakeable professional calm. "Complicated, certainly. But not without potential advantages."
"Is Connor pissed at me for this?" I asked, already jumping to that likely conclusion.
Ellsworth actually smiled faintly, something almost genuinely amused flickering across his usually impassive features.
"No. Quite the opposite, actually. This is the significant break we've been looking for.
The solid crumb of actionable intelligence that has eluded us despite considerable effort and resources. "
"But?" I prompted, knowing there had to be more.
"But it's not remotely safe for you to remain here in public like this. Not anymore. Not after what you did. Despite the considerable eyes my men have maintained on your position throughout the day."
I looked back toward the restaurant window automatically.
Saw Ella still sitting at our table, concern clear and readable on her beautiful face, even from this distance.
Worrying about me.
About what this sudden appearance meant.
About what kind of trouble I might be in.
How much should I actually tell her?
How much could I safely tell her without making an already complicated situation demonstrably worse?
"Can I bring her to the Sanctuary?" I asked directly.
"Of course," Ellsworth said immediately without any hesitation whatsoever. "I'll bring the car around directly. Three minutes maximum."
He turned and walked away with that same measured, purposeful precision.
I walked back inside, every operational sense heightened now to maximum awareness.
Scanning faces. Exits. Threats.
Ella looked up the exact second I sat back down across from her.
"Everything okay?" she asked quietly, voice carefully controlled.
I shrugged, trying for casual and probably failing completely. "Maybe. Maybe not. Honestly hard to say yet."
Then I forced something closer to a genuine smile, trying to ease the worry in her eyes. "Good news is, now I can actually tell you everything properly. And give you a real tour of where I'm staying."
She brightened slightly at that possibility, but the concern didn't completely leave her expressive eyes.
Smart woman.
Reading the situation correctly even without full context.
"What does that mean, exactly?" she asked carefully.
"It means you probably won't get to see étienne and Sabine tonight like we'd planned."
I deliberately didn't add the rest of what I was thinking: And maybe not for a while, depending on how quickly this situation develops and how dangerous it becomes.
I signaled efficiently for the check, paid quickly with the black card, and helped her into her coat with perhaps more urgency than the moment required.
Moments later Ellsworth pulled up smoothly outside in a sleek black sedan with professionally tinted windows.
Discreet. Professional. Exactly what you'd expect from someone in his carefully constructed position.
Shit, I thought with genuine concern as I helped Ella into the comfortable back seat, sliding in closely beside her.
What have I gotten this poor, wonderful girl into now?