Chapter 10
His hand never leaves mine.
Not in the car.
Not when we pull beneath an unmarked building in Mayfair that looks elegant enough from the street and turns into something entirely different the moment the garage doors close behind us.
Men appear.
Doors unlock.
Another closes behind the car before the next opens.
Nobody asks me a question.
Nobody even looks at me for too long.
Xavier gets out first, circles the car himself, then opens my door.
His coat is still wrapped around my shoulders.
When I step out, his hand finds mine again.
Firm.
Warm.
Certain.
As if somewhere between a warehouse and here, this has become the natural position for us.
My fingers tucked into Xavier Blackwell's.
I stare at them for half a second.
His hand is larger than I imagined.
That is a ridiculous thing to notice after being kidnapped.
I notice anyway.
“Sabine?”
I look up.
Those almost-black eyes are on me.
“What?”
“You stopped.”
“Oh.”
Brilliant.
Years of holding my own against one of the most intelligent men I've ever encountered, and now that he's standing in front of me in the flesh, apparently my vocabulary has been reduced to vowel sounds.
His gaze moves over my face.
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“A little.”
“Nauseous?”
“No.”
“Vision?”
“Fine.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Are you secretly a doctor too?”
“No.”
“You sound like one.”
“I called one.”
I stop walking.
“What?”
“He's waiting upstairs.”
“No.”
Xavier stops too.
His thumb moves once across the back of my hand.
“I wasn't asking.”
There he is.
I almost smile.
“Bossy.”
“Kidnapped.”
“You already used that argument.”
“It remains effective.”
I should fight him.
I don't.
That's becoming alarming.
We enter a private elevator.
There is no button panel.
Xavier touches something near the wall, and the doors close.
His arm slides around my waist.
Not possessive.
Supportive.
Which is somehow worse.
Because the moment his palm settles against my side, every nerve in my body wakes up.
I can feel the heat of him through my clothes.
His coat smells like him.
The same scent I stole from the collar at the wedding.
Cedar.
Clean wool.
Something darker I can't name.
I had held that jacket against my face for maybe three seconds.
Four.
Enough to torment him.
Now I'm wearing it while his arm is wrapped around me.
Life has a terrible sense of humor.
I look at our reflection in the elevator doors.
And almost don't recognize myself.
No wig.
No contacts.
Hair tangled around my shoulders.
Split lip.
Face scrubbed of every identity I've built over the last month.
Beside me stands Xavier Blackwell.
Beautiful in the cold, severe way expensive sculptures are beautiful.
Except I know what happens behind that face.
I've watched him make jokes at two in the morning.
I've watched him type and delete three times before finally admitting he missed me.
I know he hates overly sweet coffee.
I know he reads poetry when he can't sleep and pretends it is because the meter helps him think.
I know the difference between his angry silence and his hurt silence.
But I've never known this.
The slight crease beside his mouth when he's worried.
The way his eyes keep flicking toward me as though he needs to confirm I haven't vanished.
The pressure of his thumb moving against my side.
Ghost has hands.
That realization sends a shiver through me.
Xavier looks down immediately.
“Cold?”
“No.”
His eyes narrow.
I know that look from punctuation.
He doesn't believe me.
I almost laugh.
The elevator opens directly into the penthouse.
I expected luxury.
Blackwell does not disappoint.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a rain-soaked London skyline. Dark wood. Pale stone. Low furniture. Art that looks like it belongs behind museum glass.
But the room doesn't feel showy.
It feels controlled.
Everything intentional.
No clutter.
No photographs.
Nothing that reveals more than Xavier wants revealed.
Just like him.
The security is almost invisible.
Almost.
A discreet camera above the elevator.
Another reflected in the glass.
A door with no visible handle.
A man at the far end of the hall who disappears the second Xavier gives him a look.
I glance around.
“How many people have access to this place?”
“Currently?”
“Yes.”
“Four.”
I look at him.
“Your father?”
“No.”
That answer comes too quickly to be accidental.
Something in my chest loosens.
Xavier notices.
Naturally.
He doesn't comment.
Instead, he leads me toward the living room.
There is already a fire laid but not lit.
He releases my hand.
I immediately miss it.
Annoying.
“Sit.”
“Still bossy.”
“Still bleeding.”
I touch my lip.
“Barely.”
His eyes darken.
I lower my hand.
Fine.
I sit.
He kneels in front of me.
Xavier Blackwell.
On his knees.
My brain briefly leaves the building.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking at your wrists.”
“Oh.”
Less exciting.
His fingers are incredibly careful as he lifts my hand.
The anger comes back into his face when he sees the cuts.
Not explosive.
Worse.
Quiet.
Ghost always becomes quieter when he's furious.
I knew that before I ever knew the shape of his jaw.
“Don't,” I say.
His gaze rises.
“Don't what?”
“Do that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where you start planning murders.”
“I’m not planning murder.”
“Excellent.”
“Disfigurement remains under consideration.”
A laugh escapes me.
It hurts my lip.
I wince.
His expression changes instantly.
“Don't make me laugh,” I mutter.
“You started it.”
He stands.
The doctor arrives two minutes later.
I dislike him immediately because he wants to examine me.
Xavier remains in the room.
That should bother me.
It doesn't.
The doctor checks my head, pupils, wrists, lip, blood pressure, ribs.
Nothing broken.
Mild concussion possible.
Cuts need cleaning.
Rest.
Observation.
Xavier listens like he's memorizing every word.
When the doctor finally leaves, I expect the interrogation to begin.
Instead Xavier walks toward the kitchen.
I stare after him.
“What are you doing?”
“Tea.”
I blink.
“Tea.”
“Yes.”
“You're making tea.”
“Yes, Sabine. I understand you've had a difficult evening, but I'm concerned by how surprising you're finding basic nouns.”
I almost smile.
Then he opens a cabinet.
Takes down tea.
Not random tea.
The kind I drink.
I sit straighter.
He fills the kettle.
Then reaches into another cabinet and sets a small jar beside the cup.
Organic honey.
I stare.
“How do you know that?”
He glances over his shoulder.
“What?”
“That.”
“Honey?”
“I take tea with honey.”
“I know.”
“Organic honey.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looks genuinely confused by the question.
“You told me.”
“When?”
“November.”
My mouth opens.
He continues preparing the tea.
“Two years ago.”
I stare at his back.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I did not.”
“You were sick.”
Memory flickers.
A winter night.
Paris.
Rain.
Me complaining in NULL that my throat hurt.
Ghost telling me to stop drinking wine and make tea.
I had said something about only having terrible supermarket honey in the apartment.
My chest tightens.
“You remember that?”
He turns.
“Sabine.”
One word.
As if the answer should be obvious.
He remembers.
Two years.
Thousands of conversations.
One passing comment about honey.
He remembers.
This is going to kill me.
The intercom chimes.
Xavier touches it.
“Yes?”
A voice answers from somewhere downstairs.
“The scones are on their way up, sir.”
I blink again.
“Scones?”
He ends the connection.
“You need to eat.”
“You ordered scones?”
“Fresh.”
“Why?”
He looks at the windows.
Rain streaks the glass.
“Because it's raining.”
I stare at him.
“That's your reasoning?”
“You're French. You're injured. You're in London. I'm giving you tea and scones. Don't make this difficult.”
A laugh escapes me.
This one hurts too.
I cover my mouth.
He gives me a look.
“Sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
“No.”
He brings the tea over.
Places it carefully in front of me.
Then, instead of sitting across from me, he crouches beside the fireplace and lights it.
Within minutes, flames begin licking through the wood.
Warmth spreads into the room.
I watch him.
This man could have ordered someone else to do every single thing he's doing.
Tea.
Fire.
Food.
He has people for everything.
Instead he's doing it himself.
For me.
That frightens me more than the men in the warehouse.
Because I know how to fight enemies.
I have absolutely no idea what to do with tenderness.
Xavier returns and sits beside me.
Not too close.
Close enough.
I lift the tea.
Perfect amount of honey.
Naturally.
He watches me take the first sip.
“Well?”
“You're irritatingly competent.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn't entirely a compliment.”
“I accepted it as one.”
His mouth curves slightly.
My stomach turns over.
There.
That smile.
Barely there.
I've imagined Ghost smiling hundreds of times.
Never correctly.
Xavier's isn't wide.
It happens mostly in his eyes.
A secret smile.
One that makes me want to earn another.
Dangerous.
I look into my tea.
“Why aren't you asking me questions?”
Silence.
I glance up.
His expression has changed.
“Would you like me to?”
“No.”
“Then I'm not.”
“That simple?”
“Yes.”
“You have a dead Blackwell employee whose daughter turns out to be Vesper. Men kidnapped me asking about ARGUS. I've been inside your company systems. I've stolen information from you.”
“Yes.”
“And you made me tea.”
“You were kidnapped a few hours ago.”
“So?”
“So ARGUS will still exist tomorrow.”
I stare at him.
He reaches out.
Slowly enough that I could move away.
I don't.
His fingers catch one curl resting against my cheek.
He studies it almost absently.
Then brushes it back.
The pad of his finger grazes my cheekbone.
My skin erupts in chills.
He notices.
His hand pauses.
Our eyes meet.
“Cold again?”
Bastard.
“No.”
The smallest smile.
He knows.
I take another sip because suddenly my mouth is dry.
His hand drops.
I miss that too.
This is impossible.
I'm sitting beside Xavier Blackwell.
Breathing the same air.
His knee is less than six inches from mine.
I can hear him inhale.
See the pulse at his throat.
Ghost has a pulse.
Ghost has eyelashes.
Ghost has a tiny scar near his right eyebrow I never saw in photographs.
Ghost apparently remembers how I take tea.
How am I supposed to survive this?
He leans back.