Chapter 15
CONNOR
Iwas a coward.
That's what I kept telling myself as I walked toward the café that morning. A fucking coward.
The plan had been simple. Clean. Go to the coffee shop, find Mila, and break things off.
Tell her it was fun while it lasted, but she needed to leave Paris.
I'd even booked her a flight—back to the States, or wherever the hell she wanted to go.
First class. Open-ended ticket. Money wasn't an issue anymore, thanks to Micah's magic card.
I just needed her safe.
That was the smart thing to do. The right thing. The only thing that made sense given that Merrick was in Paris and my past was closing in like a noose.
But the moment I walked through that door and saw her sitting there—camera in hand, eyes bright, shoulders loose—the courage to do what was right evaporated.
She'd looked at me like I was someone worth waiting for.
And I'd let myself believe it.
I'd sat down. Let her take my picture. In public, where anyone could see. Where Merrick's people could be watching.
What an idiot.
Even worse, I'd promised her we'd talk tonight. Like talking was going to fix anything. Like words could make this situation less of a disaster.
So now, standing in The Sanctuary with Ellsworth pulling up CCTV footage on a dozen screens, I told myself I'd do it tonight. I'd tell her the truth—all of it—and then put her on that plane whether she wanted to go or not.
Maybe I'd have Ellsworth do it. He was good at being persuasive without raising his voice.
Yeah. That was the plan.
Except I knew it was bullshit even as I thought it.
"Anything?" I asked, leaning over Ellsworth's shoulder.
He scrolled through footage—grainy black-and-white images of Parisian streets, alleys, metro stations. Merrick's face appeared once, briefly, near the 11th arrondissement. Then nothing.
"He's moving carefully, sir," Ellsworth said. "Avoiding cameras when possible. But we'll find him."
I nodded, jaw tight.
If I could find Merrick and his goons—if I could take them out before they made another move—maybe I could buy myself time. Fly somewhere remote. Hide until this blew over.
Except it wouldn't blow over.
It never did.
I'd spent years running. So had the other eight. And all we'd done was delay the inevitable.
No.
Hiding was over.
For once, it was time for the truth.
Even if it cost me everything.
Ellsworth drove the now-repaired car through the narrow Parisian streets, the engine purring like it hadn't been shot at less than twenty-four hours ago.
I sat in the back, trying to steady my breathing.
The plan—if you could call it that—was simple. Pick up Mila. Bring her to The Sanctuary. Tell her enough of the truth that she'd understand why she needed to leave. Then put her on that plane.
Simple.
Right.
We pulled up outside her building, and my stomach clenched.
She was already waiting on the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pockets of a jacket that looked oversized and somehow perfect on her. Dark jeans. Boots. Hair loose around her shoulders.
What some might call dressed-down casual.
To me, it looked like fuck me right now on the back seat attire.
Get a grip, Ward.
Ellsworth got out and opened the door for her with a polite nod. She smiled at him, then slid into the seat beside me.
The scent of her hit me immediately—clean, soft, familiar.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey."
The car pulled away from the curb, and for a moment, we just sat there in silence.
Then she turned to me, eyes curious. "Where are you taking me?"
I'd debated this part all day. Hell, I'd even asked Ellsworth for his opinion—something I'd never done before. And it was the butler who'd suggested bringing her to The Sanctuary. For drinks. Dinner. A conversation in a place where I controlled the environment.
I wondered what Micah would think about that.
Then I remembered his words from before: You're free to invite friends or companions into The Sanctuary.
Personal visitors welcome.
"Somewhere safe," I said finally.
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."
No questions. No hesitation.
Just trust.
God, that made it worse.
The Sanctuary looked different through her eyes.
I watched her take it in—the heavy door, the thick walls, the muted elegance of the interior. The kind of place that whispered money and danger in equal measure.
Her hand went to her camera instinctively, lifting it.
I reached out and gently pushed it down.
"Not here," I said quietly.
Her eyes flicked to mine, and for a second, I thought she might argue. But she didn't. She just nodded, understanding without needing an explanation.
"Okay."
Ellsworth appeared with two glasses of champagne on a silver tray, because, of course, he did. Leave it to the butler to make the perfect choice.
Maybe I should ask him what the hell to tell her.
But he disappeared toward the kitchen to prep dinner, leaving us alone in the sitting room.
I handed Mila a glass, and we both stood there for a beat, the silence stretching.
Then I lifted my glass. She did the same.
We clinked.
Took a sip.
The champagne was perfect. Crisp. Cold. Expensive enough that I could taste the years in it.
"We forgot to make a toast," Mila said, lowering her glass.
I frowned. "Does that matter?"
She smiled faintly. "It does to me. It's like making a wish when you blow out the candles on a birthday cake. Tradition."
The word hit me like a punch.
Tradition.
My mind snapped back—unbidden, unwanted—to St. Paul's.
Tradition. A solemn ceremony in a cold chapel, boys lined up in rows, hands clasped behind their backs.
Tradition. A ragged beating in the locker room, older boys teaching younger ones what loyalty meant.
Tradition. A voice over the intercom every morning: Excellence above all.
I shook the thought off, hard, and downed half my champagne in one swallow.
Mila was watching me, her expression careful but not afraid.
"Connor?"
I set the glass down and forced myself to meet her eyes.
Just enough truth, I told myself. Just enough to make her leave.
Except I knew that was a lie, too.
"I need to tell you something," I said.
She nodded, waiting.
I took a breath. "I'm a Navy SEAL. Assigned to the CIA. Black ops. The kind of work that doesn't make the news."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, but she didn't interrupt. Just listened.
"I love what I do," I continued. "But it's dangerous. The kind of dangerous that follows you home."
Still no reaction. Just a small nod, like she was processing.
I waited for her to run. To ask questions. To do anything other than stand there looking at me like I hadn't just told her I killed people for a living.
Fuck it. More truth.
"I'm in Paris because my past caught up with me," I said, voice rougher now. "There are bad people out there who—"
"Are you in trouble?" she interrupted.
I laughed. I couldn't help it. A short, sharp bark of sound that had no humor in it.
"I can't believe you're asking me if I'm in danger," I said. "Not about what I just told you. Not about my past catching up with me. Just—are you in trouble?"
She tilted her head, her gaze steady. "Because you're a good man, Connor. A protector. I can see that."
Something deep inside me cracked.
Not broke. Cracked. Like the first fracture in ice that's been frozen solid for years.
She saw me as good.
Not damaged. Not dangerous. Not a weapon with a conscience problem.
Good.
I wanted to believe her so badly it hurt.
"Mila," I said, my voice dropping. "You're in trouble, too. Because of me. You need to leave Paris. I'll pay for it. I'll pay for everything. Just—"
"Are you telling me to leave?" she interrupted again.
I laughed again, louder this time, almost manic. "No. God, no. That's the problem."
I stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, feel the warmth radiating off her skin.
"The only thing I want to do right now," I said, voice raw, "is pick you up and take you to bed."
The words hung in the air between us.
I couldn't believe I'd said it.
But instead of looking shocked, her eyes went darker. Heat flickered behind them, unmistakable and unashamed.
She smiled. Slow. Deliberate.
"That's what I was waiting for," she said.
My breath caught.
She took both our glasses and set them aside on the table, deliberate and unhurried. Then she turned back to me, her gaze holding mine.
"Do you think Ellsworth can pack up dinner and leave it in the fridge?" she asked.
I could only nod.
"Good," she said. "Then you can pick me up now."
I didn't hesitate.
I crossed the distance between us in two strides, slid one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her.
She was lighter than I expected. Softer. Her arms came around my neck immediately, her face close to mine, her breath warm against my jaw.
Holding her felt like the first honest thing I'd done in years.
Not just the physical weight of her—the trust. The way she let herself be carried without stiffening, without questioning. The way her body relaxed into mine like she'd been waiting for this, too.
I'd carried women before. In training. On ops. Dead weight over my shoulder, adrenaline drowning out everything else.
This was different.
This was her.
And for the first time since Merrick had found me on that street corner, I didn't feel like I was running.
I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I carried her down the hall toward my room, her fingers threading through the hair at the base of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
"Connor," she murmured.
"Yeah?"
"Don't stop this time."
My chest tightened. "I won't."
I pushed the door open with my shoulder and stepped inside.
The room was simple. Functional and expensive. A bed. A window. A life lived in transit.
But with her in my arms, it felt like something more.
Like home.
I set her down gently at the edge of the bed, her feet touching the floor, her hands still resting on my shoulders.
We stood there for a beat, the air between us thick with everything unspoken.
Then she pulled me down, and the world narrowed to just us.