Chapter 21
CONNOR
Imade it through Mila's workday on sheer willpower and enough coffee to kill a normal person.
Six cups. Maybe seven. I'd lost count somewhere around noon when the barista at the café two blocks from the residency started giving me concerned looks.
My nerves were shot.
Every face that passed could be Merrick. Every car that slowed at an intersection could be his people. Every shadow that moved wrong sent my hand drifting toward the pistol tucked into my waistband.
By the time Mila finally emerged from the residency—camera slung over her shoulder, that soft, distracted expression she got when she'd been working—I felt like I'd been through a firefight.
She took one look at me and knew.
"Connor," she said quietly, stopping a few feet away. "You look terrible."
I managed a tight smile. "Thanks. You really know how to boost a guy's confidence."
"I'm serious." She stepped closer, her hand settling on my arm. "What's wrong?"
Everything.
The word sat in my throat, heavy and unwieldy. Everything was wrong. Merrick was out there. My past was closing in. I'd dragged her into a situation she didn't understand and couldn't escape.
And the worst part? I still didn't want to let her go.
"I'm worried," I admitted finally.
Her expression softened. "About me?"
"About all of it."
She squeezed my arm gently, trying to console me, and I almost broke.
Almost told her everything.
About St. Paul's. About the nine of us. About the first man I'd killed and all the ones that came after. About the fact that I wasn't a hero—I was a weapon someone else had forged, and now that weapon was pointed at her whether I wanted it to be or not.
But I couldn't.
Because if I told her the truth, she'd run. And I'd lose the one good thing I'd found in years.
The right thing would be to disappear.
Pack my shit. Leave Paris. Let Ellsworth and Micah clean up the mess. Let her go back to her life—her residency, her friends, her art—without the shadow of my past hanging over her.
That was the right thing.
So why the fuck couldn't I do it?
"Connor?"
Her voice pulled at me, but I was barely hearing her. She was saying something about her day—élodie's feedback, a shot she'd nailed, Amaya making some joke—but the words slid past me.
All I could think about was the weight of the pistol at my waistband. The fact that Merrick was out there somewhere, watching. The probability that every minute I stayed with her increased the likelihood of something going catastrophically wrong.
I was so distracted I didn't see them until it was too late.
Three old men.
I walked straight into the back of one, scattering whatever was in their hands—books, it turned out, thick paperbacks they'd been exchanging on the sidewalk.
They stumbled. One of them cursed in French, sharp and indignant.
I just stood there, frozen, my mind still half in the tactical loop, scanning for threats instead of watching where I was walking.
"Connor!" Mila's voice cut through the fog. She shot me a look—half concern, half exasperation—and immediately crouched down to help them gather the books.
"Je suis désolée," she said, her French soft and apologetic. "Il est—" She paused, searching for the word. "—distrait. Distracted."
The old men muttered amongst themselves, casting glares in my direction as they collected their books and shuffled off down the street.
When they were gone, Mila stood and turned to me, arms crossed.
"Are you really okay?" she asked.
I opened my mouth to answer. Maybe crack a joke about how much coffee I'd had. About how waiting around all day had turned me into a paranoid wreck.
But then I heard it.
Sirens.
Close. Getting closer.
My body went taut, instincts kicking in before my brain caught up. I scanned the street, tracking the sound, and my stomach dropped.
Three police cars. Converging from different directions. Blue lights flashing.
And they were slowing.
Right near us.
"Shit," I muttered.
Mila frowned. "What—"
The cars stopped. Doors opened. Officers stepped out—four of them, hands resting on their belts, eyes locked on me.
Not Mila.
Me.
My mind raced through possibilities. Had someone posted the video with the Algerians? Had I been flagged entering the country?
The weapon.
Fuck.
I raised my hands slowly, deliberately, keeping them visible. The last thing I needed was a trigger-happy French cop deciding I was a threat.
"Messieurs," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Je suis armé."
I nodded toward my waistband. "Pistolet. But I'm part of an American task force. Joint operation."
It was bullshit. Complete, improvised bullshit. But I hoped—prayed—that Micah had enough pull to get me out of this before it spiraled.
One of the officers stepped forward, older, graying at the temples, his expression unreadable.
"Nous vous amenons pour un cambriolage," he said.
A break-in.
My French wasn't great, but I caught the gist.
Mila's apartment.
"Wait," Mila said, stepping forward. "That's my apartment. But I didn't call you."
The officer glanced at her, then back at me. "Someone did. It is our job to bring him in."
Merrick.
The realization hit me like a cold blade between the ribs.
This was him. His next move. Not violence. Not a direct confrontation. Just a chess piece shifted to box me in.
Smart.
Fucking smart.
One of the officers approached, gesturing for me to lift my jacket. I did, slowly, revealing the pistol.
He removed it carefully, cleared the chamber with practiced efficiency, and stowed the rounds and magazine in an evidence bag. No rough handling. No unnecessary force.
Professional.
That was good. It meant this wasn't about me being a threat. It was procedural.
Which also meant Merrick had covered his tracks well enough that the cops didn't know they were being used.
"Can I come, too?" Mila asked, her voice tight.
The officer shook his head. "Non, mademoiselle."
I turned to her, catching her eyes. "Go to your apartment. The butler will find you."
She looked like she wanted to argue. But something in my expression stopped her.
"Okay," she said quietly.
Two officers gestured toward one of the cars. I walked, hands still visible, moving slowly so no one got jumpy.
As they opened the back door, I glanced over my shoulder.
Mila stood on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around herself, camera hanging at her side, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
Fear? Confusion? Anger?
All of the above, probably.
I wanted to say something. Wanted to tell her it would be okay. That this was just a misunderstanding. That I'd be back before she knew it.
But the words stuck in my throat.
Because I didn't know if any of that was true.
They loaded me into the back of the car—no cuffs, at least—and the door shut with a dull thud that felt heavier than it should have.
Through the window, I watched Mila grow smaller as the car pulled away, her figure framed by the Paris street like a photograph I'd never taken.
And all I could think was: Merrick.
This was his game.
Separate us. Isolate me. Make me useless while he made his next move.
But what was the next move?
The car turned a corner, and Mila disappeared from view.
My jaw tightened.
Whatever Merrick was planning, he'd just made a mistake.
Because now I wasn't just worried.
I was pissed.
And when I got out of this—when, not if—he was going to regret ever coming to Paris.