Chapter 9
CONNOR
We walked in silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind where every footstep felt too loud and every unspoken word hung between us like a question neither of us knew how to answer.
The kiss had changed something. Shifted the ground beneath us. And now we were both trying to figure out how to move forward without acknowledging that the world had tilted.
I surprised myself by breaking it.
"I actually hate places like that."
Mila's head turned sharply, then she laughed—a genuine, surprised sound that made something in my chest loosen.
"Really?" she said, smiling. "You seemed pretty comfortable."
I shrugged. "I can be comfortable and still hate it."
She bit her lip, still grinning. "I mean, sure. It's fine to look. But I'm not really the showy type."
"I picked up on that," I said.
Then, because my brain was running on fumes and my mouth apparently didn't need permission anymore, I added, "Maybe you should be."
Her eyes went wide.
Shit.
"I didn't mean—" I started quickly, heat crawling up my neck. "I don't mean you should have sex in public. I just meant you're gorgeous and you should show it off more."
The words hung there, raw and honest and completely unfiltered.
Her cheeks flushed pink. She looked down, smiling at the sidewalk like it had just told her a secret.
"Oh," she said softly.
We kept walking.
My pulse was still hammering. I was running on fumes—another sleepless night, adrenaline from dealing with Julien, and now the residual heat from that room. It wasn't my scene. Orgies had never been my thing. But I was still a man, and seeing sex—even secondhand—had a way of heightening everything.
I wanted to reach out. Take her hand. Feel her skin against mine without the weight of intention behind it.
I didn't.
Instead, I cleared my throat. "You want to get coffee?"
She glanced at me, relief flickering across her face. "Yes. Please."
We found a café with outdoor seating, tucked into a corner where the sun hit the tables just right. Mila slid into a chair and picked up the menu, her French coming out hesitant but determined when the waiter appeared.
He responded in rapid-fire French that I had no hope of following.
She ordered something—coffee, I assumed—and then looked at me expectantly.
I shrugged. "I'm not fluent."
"Neither am I," she admitted.
The waiter stared at me like I was a lady-whipped lad from the sticks who'd stumbled into the city and had no business being there.
I ignored the judgment and pointed at the menu. "Triple espresso. And bring an assortment of your favorite pastries."
At that, the waiter's expression shifted. His eyes lit up with the kind of enthusiasm only a Parisian could muster for food.
He nodded sharply and scurried back inside.
Mila leaned back in her chair, smiling. "You just made his day."
"Good," I said. "I need him on my side."
She laughed, then tilted her head, studying me. "We keep running into each other."
I shrugged, trying for casual. But I was too tired to lie well, and honesty had a way of slipping out when my defenses were down.
"I followed you," I admitted.
Her eyebrows shot up.
"Not like that," I added quickly. "I was looking out for you. I figured we'd bump into each other again, and when I saw you from a distance, I tried to catch up. Didn't manage it until you'd already stepped into the orgy."
We both paused.
Then we laughed—real, unguarded laughter that broke whatever tension was left.
"That's not something that happens back home," Mila said, shaking her head.
"Yeah, well. Paris is full of surprises."
The waiter returned with our coffee and a plate stacked high with pastries—croissants, pain au chocolat, something with almonds that looked like it had been touched by God himself.
The smell hit me like a freight train.
I was suddenly, violently hungry.
The waiter set the plate down with a flourish, and I motioned for Mila to pick first.
She did, carefully selecting a small almond pastry.
Then I attacked.
I grabbed a croissant, tore into it, reached for the pain au chocolat before I'd even finished the first bite. Flakes scattered across the table. I chased it with espresso, barely tasting anything, just feeding the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.
It took me a full minute to realize Mila was staring at me.
Amused.
I paused, pastry halfway to my mouth, suddenly aware of how feral I must look.
"Sorry," I mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate. "I was hungry."
"Yeah," she said, grinning. "I noticed."
We both laughed again, and I forced myself to slow down. To actually taste what I was eating. To drink the espresso like a human instead of an animal.
The sugar and caffeine hit my system, and I felt almost whole again. Almost human.
"So," Mila said, wrapping her hands around her coffee cup. "How's your vacation going?"
I swallowed. "Okay. Beats home."
"Where's home?"
"Brooklyn."
Her eyes brightened. "I've been to New York. The city, I mean. Not Brooklyn."
"You're not missing much," I said.
She tilted her head. "Do you ever go back?"
"No." The word came out harder than I meant it to. "There's nothing for me there anymore."
The air between us shifted, and I realized how harsh that sounded.
I softened my tone. "My childhood wasn't the best. My parents are both gone now. But it's okay. I'm good."
She studied me, her gaze steady and far too perceptive. "Are you sure?"
For a second, I wondered if she could see straight into my soul. If she knew about St. Paul's, about the nine of us, about the things I'd done to survive.
I almost told her.
Almost.
Then I saw the corner of her mouth twitch, like she was trying not to laugh.
She pointed at her own mouth, then at me.
I frowned, confused.
She gestured again, more insistent.
I grabbed my napkin and wiped the corner of my mouth.
It came away with a massive streak of chocolate.
"You know," I said, staring at the napkin, "if we're gonna keep bumping into each other, you can tell me when I look ridiculous with chocolate on my face."
She laughed—really laughed—and then blurted out, "You could never look ridiculous."
The words hit me low. Down there.
My pulse kicked.
We both went silent.
The space between us thickened again, but this time it wasn't awkward. It was something else. Something charged.
I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping. "I very much want to take you to dinner."
She smiled, soft and uncertain and hopeful all at once. "I would very much like that."
Then she glanced at her phone and nearly jumped out of her seat.
"Shit," she muttered. "I'm late. There's a photo shoot in ten minutes, and it'll take fifteen to get there."
She fumbled for her wallet, pulling out bills.
I reached out and caught her hand.
The contact jolted through both of us like an electric current.
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide and startled.
I held her gaze. "I'll pay. For coffee. And dinner."
She just nodded, like the words wouldn't come.
Then she stood, grabbed her bag, and left.
I watched her go, her figure disappearing into the crowd, and every instinct I had screamed at me to follow.
But I didn't.
Because if I was going to take her to dinner—if I was going to do this right—I needed to not look like a sleep-deprived lunatic with chocolate on my face.
I needed to go back to The Sanctuary. Get some actual sleep. Maybe shower. Possibly figure out what the hell I was doing with my life.
I signaled the waiter, paid the bill, and stood.
My legs felt heavier than they should have. My body was finally catching up to the fact that I'd been running on adrenaline and spite for the better part of two days.
As I walked back toward The Sanctuary, I replayed the afternoon in my head.
The kiss.
The coffee.
The way she'd looked at me.
The way her hand had felt in mine.
And somewhere between the cobblestones and the fading daylight, I realized something that should have terrified me.
I wasn't just protecting Mila because it was the right thing to do.
I was protecting her because I couldn't imagine a version of Paris—of my life—where she didn't exist in it.
Which was a problem.
Because men like me didn't get to keep women like her.
We just got to borrow them for a little while and hope we didn't break them in the process.
By the time I reached The Sanctuary, my body was screaming for sleep.
Ellsworth opened the door before I could knock, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp.
"Mr. Ward," he said. "You look like you've had an eventful day."
"You could say that."
He stepped aside, letting me in. "Shall I prepare dinner?"
"No," I said, heading for the stairs. "Just wake me up in four hours. I have plans."
Ellsworth's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Plans, sir?"
"Dinner," I said. "With a woman."
His expression didn't change, but I swear I saw the ghost of a smile. "Very good, sir. I'll ensure you're presentable."
I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back at him. "Ellsworth."
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you know any good restaurants in Paris? Somewhere that doesn't involve orgies or pretentious assholes?"
This time, he did smile. "I believe I can manage that, sir."
"Good," I said. "Because I'm taking her somewhere nice. And I'm not fucking this up."
"Of course, not, sir."
I collapsed onto the bed in my room, still fully dressed, and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
And for the first time in weeks, I didn't dream about St. Paul's or the nine of us or the men hunting me down.
I dreamed about dark hair and soft hands and a woman who looked at me like I wasn't broken.
Like maybe—just maybe—I could be something other than damaged goods.
Even if it was only for one night.