Chapter 18 Ethan
ETHAN
I’m not nervous.
I’m not.
The fact that I’ve changed my shirt twice and am currently arguing with my reflection is purely a coincidence.
“You look like you’re about to go to war, not dinner,” I mutter at my own scowling face.
Which, to be fair, isn’t totally wrong. I’m taking Barbara Neal out in public. In fancy clothes. With other people around. That’s practically combat.
I grab my jacket, wallet, keys, and the small velvet box sitting on my desk.
Not a ring—Christ, I’m not that crazy. Yet.
Just a pair of delicate gold earrings shaped like tiny bees with black enamel stripes.
When I saw them online at three in the morning, my heart did a weird lurch, and my finger hit ‘buy now’ before my brain caught up.
“Pathetic,” I tell myself fondly, tucking the box into the inner pocket of my blazer.
The Audi’s idling at the curb, thanks to Dominic, our doorman. I press a fifty into his wrinkled hand and slide in. As I pull into traffic, my phone buzzes once in the console.
Firecracker:
I'm ready. If you stand me up, I’m sending Basia your address so she can key your car.
I huff out a laugh and type back at a red light:
Me:
Relax, firecracker. I wouldn’t miss a date with you for anything.
Her typing bubble pops up, then disappears. Then her message comes through.
Firecracker:
It’s not a date.
Me:
Sure, baby. Keep telling yourself that. I’ll be right there.
Her only response is the middle finger emoji. I can’t stop grinning the entire way to her place.
I barely pull up when the door to her apartment building opens, and my whole world narrows to one woman.
Barbara steps out in a dress that actively tries to kill me.
It’s a deep emerald green that does obscene things to her glowing skin, clinging to her curves before flaring just above the knee.
The neckline dips enough to be dangerous but not enough to be trashy.
Her hair’s up in a loose twist, a few blonde curls escaping to brush her neck.
Gold heels, small clutch, lips glossed. A classy shawl keeping her shoulders and arms warm.
Every cell in my body goes hot.
She spots me and hesitates, lifting a hand self-consciously to smooth her dress.
I’m already out of my car and moving toward her before I register unbuckling my seatbelt.
“Holy shit,” I breathe when I reach her. “You trying to give me a stroke, Barbs? You look fucking fantastic.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “You’re… dressed,” she counters weakly, glancing at my dark suit and open collar.
I snort. “I could show up in a trash bag and it wouldn’t matter. No one’s going to be looking at me while you’re in the room.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”
I offer her my arm, bowing slightly. “Come on, firecracker. Let me buy you dinner before you remember you allegedly hate me.”
She rolls her eyes but slips her hand into the crook of my elbow and lets me lead her to the passenger seat. My heart does that stupid lurch again.
Hotel Artemis sits three blocks from Central Park, one of those glass-and-marble monuments to excessive wealth where the staff are too well-trained to look impressed by anyone.
The rooftop restaurant is all floor-to-ceiling windows and moody lighting, the kind of place you bring someone you want to fuck and impress in equal measure.
I greased the manager’s palm this morning to have a corner table ready for me tonight.
The hostess recognizes me. They always do.
“Good evening, Mr. Kane. Ms. Neal. Your table is ready,” she says with a practiced smile.
They sit us in the corner, and I take the chair that lets me have my back to the wall and a clear view of the doors and most of the room. Old habits, never dying and all that.
Candlelight flickers on the linen tablecloth, and city lights glitter beyond the glass like a thousand distant fires. But the most beautiful thing is the woman sitting across from me.
She orders scallops. I order a steak. The waiter pours us wine that probably costs more than the monthly rent in some states. None of it holds my attention like the way Barbara licks a stray drop of sauce from her thumb.
“So, this is nice,” she says, glancing around once the waiter retreats. “Fancy.”
“I have layers, little bee,” I say with a grin. “I’m not all hacking and kidnapping you into horror sims and ruining your underwear supply.”
Her eyes flash. “You owe me at least three new pairs, by the way.”
I count on my fingers. “Warehouse, your place, rehearsal dinner coatroom…”
Her foot kicks mine under the table. “Shut up.”
I chuckle. “You started it.”
She takes a sip of wine like she needs the fortification. “I’m still mad at you, you know.”
“For which part?” I ask lightly. “The lying about Seb? Or for making you walk funny today?”
“You sound way too proud of yourself, Ethan,” she mutters.
“I’m proud of the part where you screamed my name,” I say. “Multiple times.”
Her hand spasms on the stem of her glass. Her throat works as she swallows. “You’re vulgar.”
“And you’re blushing,” I shoot back. “Again.”
She glares at me, but there’s heat behind it now. “You’re the worst.”
“You say that,” I murmur, leaning in just enough that she has to meet my eyes, “and yet you’re here. Dressed like my dreams grew legs and walked into my life.”
“So dramatic,” she mutters. But her foot doesn’t move away from where it’s pressed to my ankle.
We slip into that strange new comfort we’ve built in a terrifyingly short time.
Bickering, teasing, barbed little comments threaded with something softer, warmer.
She talks about work, about the kids, about true crime podcasts.
I talk about nothing real—definitely not the contract work, or Zhao, or blood—just projects, pranks I pulled on the guys when we were deployed, stupid shit Ethan Sebastian Kane has done for kicks.
Between bites, my hand finds her knee under the table. Just resting there. Not pushing. Not yet. Her muscles tense at the first touch, then relax. She doesn’t move my hand away.
“So,” she says eventually, stabbing her scallop in a way that should probably scare me. “Is this what you do? Take women to stupidly fancy restaurants and charm them into forgiving your felonies?”
“No,” I say truthfully. “You’re the first one I’ve brought here.”
Her brows pull together, like she wants to believe me but isn’t sure she should. “You expect me to swallow that?”
“You’ve swallowed worse,” I say before my brain can stop my mouth.
Her fork clatters against the plate. “Ethan!”
I laugh, delighted, and squeeze her knee. “You walked right into that, little bee.”
She glares. It’s not very effective when she’s biting back a smile. “You’re impossible.”
“Still here,” I point out.
She sighs and looks out over the city. The lights reflect in her eyes, softer now. “This is… nice,” she admits. “It feels… unreal.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, watching her more than the view. “I know the feeling.”
Her gaze slides back to me. Something in her expression makes my chest tight.
I clear my throat and reach into my jacket before I chicken out. “Got something for you,” I say, sliding the velvet box onto the table.
Her eyes widen. “If you propose I’m jumping off this building.”
I snort. “Relax. I like having you in one piece.”
“You say that now…”
“Open it, firecracker.”
She does, obviously wary. When she sees the earrings, her mouth falls open. “They’re…” she starts, then shuts her mouth, blinking fast.
“You like them?” I ask, suddenly more tense than I was in the sim with Barbara’s ass in the air.
Her thumb brushes one tiny gold bee. “They’re beautiful,” she whispers. She closes the box carefully, like it’s something precious. “Thank you,” she says, and it’s soft enough to make me want to flip the table, drag her into my lap, and make her say my name in that same tone over and over.
“You’re welcome, little bee.”
For a while, it’s easy. Too easy. We flirt through dessert, share bites off each other’s plates, her tongue darting out to catch a smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth that I would have killed to lick off myself.
I’m leaning in, my hand sliding higher on her thigh, making her breath catch, when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
The air shifts.
I’ve felt it before—Afghanistan, shitty back alleys where deals go bad and bullets fly. A subtle change in pressure, in silence, like the world holding its breath.
I scan the room over her shoulder, my smile not changing.
Three men I haven’t seen before. Alone, that wouldn’t matter. This is Manhattan; strangers are the main export. But they’re just a little bit too stiff. Their eyes keep moving, never really focusing on their meals.
One stands near the bar like he’s waiting for the drink that’s already in front of him.
Another has taken a table at the far side with a perfect line of sight to the entrance and most of the room, back to a column.
The third just walked in and is talking quietly to the hostess, his gaze flicking once—just once—toward me.
“Ethan?” Barbara’s voice is tentative. “You just went somewhere in your head.”
I force my shoulders to loosen. “Don’t freak out,” I say in my calmest voice.
“Wow, what a reassuring sentence,” she mutters.
I squeeze her thigh, just above the knee. “Hey. Eyes on me, firecracker.”
She does. God, she trusts me so easily sometimes it feels like a blade to the ribs. Especially since she’ll never know how much of her trust I’ve already betrayed by spying on her.
“We’re going to take a little walk,” I murmur, still looking at her like we’re talking dirty. “We’re going to go through that door—” I nod toward the service entrance by the bar. “—and we’re going to keep walking until I say stop.”
Her lashes flutter. “Is this some kind of weird public play?”
“Wish it was,” I say. “It’s not. Don’t look around. Just… trust me.”
Something in my tone must get through, because the teasing drops from her face. “Is it something dangerous?” she asks under her breath, not moving her eyes from mine. “Emily told me about her getting kidnapped. She said you didn’t get the guy in charge. Is it them?”
Smart girl.
“Don’t know yet,” I lie. “But we’re not waiting to find out.”
I stand, tossing enough cash on the table to cover the bill, the tip, and the replacement of anything I’m going to break in the next few minutes. I offer her my hand like the gentleman I sometimes forget I can be.
She takes it, her fingers a little colder now, and we move toward the service door at an unhurried pace. We’re halfway there when it begins.
The guy by the bar touches his ear—comms. The one at the table stands, shrugging his jacket back just enough to flash the hint of a holster. The newcomer finishes speaking to the hostess and steps directly into the path toward the exit.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Ethan?” Barbara whispers, her fingers tightening around mine.
I don’t answer. I’m already shifting gears, the world slowing into that sharp-edged clarity I only get when shit’s about to go down.
I angle us toward the service door anyway. Bar Guy peels off the counter and starts moving parallel. Table Guy accelerates, trying to cut us off from the other side. Host Stand Guy falls in behind. Classic herd-and-box maneuver.
They’re good. Not good enough.
When Bar Guy reaches for the inside of his jacket, I move.
I yank Barbara down just as the first suppressed shot thuds into the wall where we were just standing.
The room erupts—screams, shattering glasses, the sharp crash of someone upending a chair.
I flip the closest table with my free hand, sending plates and wine glasses flying.
It slams down between us and the shooters, buying us half a second of cover.
“Under,” I bark, not bothering with endearments now.
Barbara drops to her knees and crawls behind the table as another shot punches into the linen. I lunge sideways, grab the dessert cart, and shove it hard toward Bar Guy. It slams into his legs, sending him crashing to the floor in a flail of metal and chocolate mousse.
“Stay down,” I snap at Barbara, even as I know there’s no safe place in this room anymore.
The service door is three meters away. Might as well be three miles.
Host Stand Guy is reaching for Barbara’s ankles when I drive my foot into his wrist. Bone crunches under my heel, and he shrieks, dropping the gun he’d been about to pull. It skitters across the floor under another table.
“Back,” I hiss, grabbing Barbara by the elbow and dragging her with me in a half-crouch, using the still-standing tables as partial cover. Patrons are screaming, ducking, and crawling. Someone’s crying. The staff are frozen or fleeing.
I grab the handle of the service door and shove it open hard, pulling Barbara through ahead of me.
The relative quiet of the staff corridor slams into us like a wall. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Stainless steel carts line the hallway, smelling of lemon cleaner and overheated food.
Behind us, the door explodes inward—someone hitting it full-force. Bar Guy, I’d bet my left nut.
I jam a chair under the handle as a temporary wedge. It’ll buy us maybe ten seconds.
“Run,” I tell Barbara. “Stay right in front of me. Don’t stop unless I tell you.”
She doesn’t argue this time. Smart girl. She takes off down the corridor, her heels clicking against the tile. I pull my phone out of my pocket while we move and thumb open my favorites.
Killian’s in the Maldives, allegedly not checking his phone. That leaves the other trigger-happy motherfucker on speed dial.
I hit Caleb’s name.
He answers on the first ring. “Kane?”
“Hotel Artemis, rooftop restaurant,” I say, already scanning hallway intersections, counting camera domes, mapping exits. “Zhao’s guys. At least three men, guns, disguised as civilians. I’m unarmed with Barbara in tow.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Caleb’s voice goes cold. “On my way. ETA ten.”
“Bring toys,” I add.
“Have you been practicing your aim?”
I shove Barbara around a corner just as the door behind us bangs again. The chair shrieks across the floor, metal scraping.
“I’m highly motivated,” I growl.
Caleb grunts. “Don’t die.”
The line goes dead.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and focus on Barbara’s back as we pound down the hallway, deeper into the hotel’s guts, goons on our heels and the whole night going to hell in a handbasket.
“Don’t let go of my hand, little bee,” I call out, lunging forward to catch her fingers again.
She laces them through mine without hesitation.
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” she yells back, voice trembling but strong.
That’s my girl.