Chapter 10 #4
Proof.
He exists.
I exist.
And we're finally in the same room.
I look at his hand.
“Your fingers are longer than I thought.”
He turns his head.
“You thought about my fingers?”
Mistake.
I focus very seriously on my soup.
“No.”
“Interesting.”
“I meant from the photographs.”
“Which photographs?”
“You know exactly which ones.”
“The one with the Scotch?”
“Yes.”
“The watch?”
“Yes.”
“The one after the shower?”
I choke.
Xavier calmly hands me water.
“You’re horrible.”
“You saved that one.”
My eyes narrow.
“You cannot know that.”
“I can make an educated assumption.”
“Based on?”
“The conversation that followed.”
Heat spreads all the way down my neck.
“That conversation was theoretical.”
“Very theoretical.”
I kick his ankle beneath the table.
He catches my leg between both of his.
I freeze.
His eyes meet mine.
Neither of us laughs now.
The contact is innocent.
Almost.
My bare calf is trapped between expensive black trousers.
His hand still holds mine.
His thumb stops moving.
The air changes again.
Xavier's gaze drops to my mouth.
I feel the kiss from earlier like it happened seconds ago.
Honey.
Balm.
Heat.
That low sound he made when I pulled him back.
My stomach tightens.
His voice drops.
“Eat, Sabine.”
I blink.
“What?”
His eyes stay on my lips.
“You need food.”
“You're the one staring at my mouth.”
“I can do both.”
A laugh slips out.
His legs loosen.
I pull mine back before I make another reckless decision.
We finish dinner.
Mostly.
Xavier wins an argument over half the chicken.
I win one over the potatoes.
We split the chocolate tart without discussing the intimacy of using the same fork until I realize halfway through what we're doing.
I hold it up.
“This is unsanitary.”
He looks at me.
“You had your tongue in my mouth twenty minutes ago.”
Fair.
I take another bite.
When dinner is cleared away, I find the book.
It sits on the corner of the coffee table near the fire.
Old.
Bent.
Hideous.
My copy of Romeo and Juliet.
I stop walking.
“You kept it.”
Xavier follows my gaze.
“Yes.”
I pick it up.
The cover is even worse than I remember.
“This cost three pounds.”
“I know.”
“There’s somebody’s GCSE homework written in the margins.”
“I noticed.”
“You probably own a first edition.”
“I do.”
I look at him.
“And you kept this?”
His expression suggests the answer should be obvious.
“You gave it to me.”
My chest aches.
“It was a clue.”
“It was mine.”
No.
That is worse.
I lower myself onto the sofa with the book in my lap.
Xavier sits beside me.
His thigh touches mine.
I open automatically to the marked passage.
There it is.
The line I underlined.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
Xavier reads it over my shoulder.
“You could have chosen something less dramatic.”
“It was accurate.”
His eyes shift to me.
“All of it?”
I know exactly which word he's asking about.
I close the book.
“At the time, I didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“How much I hated you.”
His mouth twitches.
“Comforting.”
“Xavier Blackwell.”
“Ah.”
“The name.”
His amusement fades.
I run my fingers over the battered cover.
“I already cared about Ghost before I knew who he was.”
He says nothing.
“That was the problem. Ghost was…” I search for the right word. “Separate.”
“Safe.”
I look at him.
“Yes.”
He understands without explanation.
“Then I saw you at the wedding.”
“Nearly assaulting Sergei.”
“I grabbed his jacket.”
“You looked homicidal.”
“He was enjoying himself.”
“He was paid very well.”
“I assumed.”
I smile.
Then it fades again.
“I watched you, and suddenly everything I had put into different boxes became one person. Ghost. Blackwell. The man I trusted. The family I blamed.”
Xavier leans forward, forearms on his thighs.
“I didn't know your father.”
“I know.”
“You believe me?”
“I believe Ghost.”
His jaw shifts.
“And Xavier?”
I look at him.
There it is again.
The division neither of us knows how to close.
“I’m trying.”
He nods.
No pressure.
No demand that I trust him because he rescued me.
That only makes it worse.
I look back at the book.
“When Papa died, do you remember that night?”
“Yes.”
“You stayed online.”
“Yes.”
“For six hours.”
“Seven.”
My head turns.
“What?”
“Seven hours and nineteen minutes.”
I stare.
“You remember?”
His eyes hold mine.
“Sabine.”
Something about the way he says my name makes my throat tighten.
“I remember everything about you.”
I look away before he sees how badly that lands.
Too late.
His fingers slide beneath my chin.
Not forcing.
Just asking me to look back.
I do.
“I didn't know what happened,” he says. “You wouldn't tell me. You only said someone was gone.”
“I couldn't type it.”
“I know.”
“You stayed anyway.”
“You asked me not to leave.”
“I did?”
“You wrote, ‘Just stay.’”
My eyes burn.
I remember.
Not the exact words.
The feeling.
Sitting on the floor of Papa’s empty apartment in France with a laptop balanced against my knees because getting into bed meant accepting he would never come home.
Ghost's green indicator stayed lit all night.
No questions.
No speeches.
Just:
Still here.
I swallow.
“You kept writing that.”
Xavier’s thumb brushes my cheek.
“Because you kept checking.”
I close my eyes.
There.
That's why this hurts.
Not Blackwell.
Not the kidnapping.
Not even Papa.
Because the man I thought existed only in that impossible private space has been real all along.
And now I know how his hand feels against my face.
I lean into it before I can stop myself.
His breathing changes.
My eyes open.
He's looking at me the way he did when I walked out in the robe.
Like he found something.
Not a person.
Something rare.
Something he still can't quite believe is sitting within reach.
“What?” I whisper.
His fingers slide carefully into my curls.
“I imagined this.”
“My hair?”
“You.”
That word moves through me slowly.
“How?”
“Wrong.”
I smile.
“Good answer.”
“Never blonde.”
“Drew liked blonde.”
“Drew likes anything with a pulse and appropriate paperwork.”
I laugh.
Xavier's gaze softens.
Then his fingers move deeper into my hair.
His other hand settles at my waist.
This time when he draws me closer, I go willingly.
Our knees touch.
Then our thighs.
I shift until I'm facing him more fully.
His hand remains at my waist through the robe.
Warm.
Heavy.
Real.
I touch his face.
That feels almost more intimate than kissing him.
The shadow along his jaw is rough beneath my fingertips.
He stills completely.
I trace it.
His cheek.
The edge of his mouth.
“You're real,” I whisper.
“So are you.”
“Debatable.”
His lips touch the pad of my thumb.
My pulse jumps.
I leave it there.
His eyes never leave mine.
Then he turns his head and presses a kiss into my palm.
My entire body goes soft.
That.
Not the heated kiss before.
That almost undoes me.
I lean forward.
His forehead meets mine.
“Do you think we would have liked each other if we'd met normally?”
“No.”
I pull back.
“No?”
“You would've hated me.”
“I already did.”
“Exactly.”
“And you?”
His hand moves along my back.
“I would've noticed you.”
“How quickly?”
His eyes drop to my mouth.
“Sabine, I recognized your lips while a man was holding a weapon on you.”
A smile breaks through.
“That is still an insane thing to say.”
“True.”
“How quickly?”
He looks over my face.
No disguise.
No contacts.
No protection.
“The second you walked into the room.”
My stomach flips.
“Arrogant.”
“I meant I would've noticed you. Not that you'd notice me.”
I stare.
“That may be the first humble thing you've ever said.”
“Don't tell anyone.”
“Your reputation?”
“Ruined.”
I kiss him.
This time I start it.
Slow.
No urgency.
My hand stays against his jaw while his curls around my waist.
His mouth is warm and careful for several seconds.
Then he deepens it slightly.
Not the desperation from earlier.
Something sweeter.
Exploratory.
Like we finally have permission to learn what all those years of words feel like translated into touch.
His thumb strokes my side.
My fingers slip into the dark hair at his nape.
He kisses the corner of my mouth.
My cheek.
Then my temple.
A trail so gentle it raises goose bumps along my arms.
“Cold?” he murmurs.
“No.”
“Finally an honest answer.”
I smile against his neck.
He smells unfairly good.
“You're smelling me again.”
I freeze.
His chest moves with quiet laughter.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
Dangerous words.
Because I don't.
Not tonight.
I pull back.
His eyes meet mine.
I think he sees the answer before I do.
So I kiss him once more rather than give it words.
Eventually exhaustion wins.
Not dramatically.
My body simply starts losing the argument.
I yawn halfway through something Xavier is telling me about Drew nearly getting banned from a hotel in Milan.
He stops.
“I’m listening.”
“You’re asleep.”
“I’m not.”
“You just closed your eyes for fifteen seconds.”
“French blink.”
“Bed.”
“No.”
His brows lift.
I pull my robe around my legs.
“I don't want to go to a bedroom.”
Something in his expression changes immediately.
He understands.
No questions.
“All right.”
“I can sleep here.”
“Fine.”
He stands and disappears briefly.
When he returns, he has a pillow and a soft gray throw.
He places the pillow against the arm of the sofa and unfolds the blanket over me.
I stare.
“What?”
“You're very domestic for a cyber tyrant.”
“Go to sleep.”
He sits on the edge long enough to tuck the blanket around my feet.
No one has done that since Papa.
My eyes sting.
I blink it away.
Xavier starts to stand.
My hand catches his wrist.
He looks down.
“Stay.”
There it is again.
That word.
Years later.
Different room.
Same man.
His expression softens.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I release him.
Xavier moves to the armchair opposite the sofa.
Not beside me.
Not hovering.
Close enough that I can see him.
The fire burns lower between us.
Rain traces the windows.
He loosens his tie completely and opens another button at his throat.
Then he sits back.
Dark eyes on me.
I shift beneath the blanket.
“You're staring again.”
“Yes.”
“That's unsettling.”
“You'll survive.”
“Are you going to watch me sleep?”
“For a while.”
“Creepy.”
“Probably.”
I smile into the pillow.
My eyes grow heavy.
I should be frightened.
I should be thinking about ARGUS.
Papa.