Chapter 60
Reeve
Iemerge from a bathroom as beautiful as the one in the five-star hotel back in Boston.
Was it only this morning that I showered there? Dying really screws with one’s perception of time.
“Thank you for the clothes,” I tell Malachi, who’s sitting in one of the two leather armchairs by the picture window, face turned toward the garden in full bloom beyond.
I wonder if Lisa planted it, then wonder if she’s here.
When Electra led me upstairs, the only person I ran into was Malachi. He was pacing the first-floor landing, speaking animatedly in Atlantean on his phone. Electra asked him to show me to a guestroom—and stay with me while I showered.
My black-haired beauty might’ve let me hug her, but I’ve yet to earn back her trust. I’m ready to fight for it, though. For as long as it takes. And not because I owe her my life, but because I want her in mine.
Malachi taps his cell phone against the padded armrest. Whoever decorated this place spared no expense.
Even though I didn’t grow up in the lap of luxury, I’ve visited my fair share of fancy interiors to know the glass-and-brass light fixture above the king-sized bed costs more than my mother’s ring.
The one I spent a full minute scrubbing with soap to rid it of blood.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” I tell Malachi.
He swallows, then gives a sharp nod.
“You weren’t able to…”
“No.” He glances toward the window, running a palm down his face. “How do you feel?”
I comb my fingers through my damp hair. “Alive.”
He snorts, eyes so bloodshot his blue irises appear phosphorescent. “I admire the positivity.” He taps his cell phone twice more on the armrest before standing. “Are you attached to your glasses?”
“I’m attached to seeing.”
“Tarian could probably fix your eyes. That’s what I meant. But if you’re attached to glasses, give me your prescription, and I’ll have some shipped over, since I can’t imagine a cracked lens is pleasant to look through.”
“That’s…thoughtful.” Unexpectedly so. “While I’m not sure I’m ready for magical laser surgery, I’d appreciate a new pair.” I give him my prescription, which he immediately types into his phone. “Can I ask you a question?”
He nods as he crosses the room, his beige loafers sinking into the plush cream rug I was worried about soiling on my way in.
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I ask.
“I don’t think she should.”
I’m not sure what to make of his answer, besides the fact that he dislikes me.
“Hungry?” he asks, pulling open the bedroom door.
“Starving.”
Voices drift from downstairs. I can hear Quinn’s in the mix. Electra’s too. Nerves hit me out of nowhere, making me feel like a schoolboy about to ask his crush out on a date.
The instant I enter the kitchen, my lungs expand with a breath shaped partly from the relief of seeing Quinn—bruise-and-blood free—and partly from the awe of seeing Electra move around the kitchen in a black crop top and low-slung, black sweats.
She’s stunning in anything, but there’s something about this outfit—revealing without trying, soft against the hard lines of her body—that gets to me.
God, what I wouldn’t give to return to the guestroom, climb into bed with her, and just hold her against me. Who have I become…?
“Never thought I’d see you wearing tan chinos and a white button-down.” Quinn waggles her eyebrows at me.
I smile. “Never thought I’d see you sharing a meal with Atlantean citizens.”
“Touché.”
Calanthe laughs as she scoops pink risotto into her mouth. One inhale of the spread on the kitchen island has my stomach growling now that I’m no longer covered in blood.
“What’s good?” I ask, moving closer.
I try to catch Electra’s eyes, but they’re laser-focused on the plate she’s putting together.
“Everything’s fucking delicious after a canned food diet.” Quinn must sense the news of her treatment will incense me, because she averts her stare.
“Wasn’t your father your jailor?” Calanthe asks.
“He was.” A blush creeps into her cheeks, throwing her scar into pale relief in spite of the blonde curtain masking it.
Could Tarian—who can apparently fix eyes—smooth skin?
“What is it about asshole genitors?” Electra murmurs.
Calanthe’s smile dwindles.
“You mentioned yours was dead, Quinn?” Malachi reclines against the white marble countertop of the pastry station—yes, this kitchen is equipped with a pastry station—and crosses both his ankles and arms.
“Handyman is dead?” Calanthe gasps.
“Hayes killed him. That’s how she broke free,” I explain.
I don’t miss the look Electra exchanges with Malachi. They must suspect us of lying. I don’t hold it against them. I’d suspect us of lying if the tables were turned.
As I contemplate how to prove we’re on their side, the kitchen door opens and in strides Tarian.
I can’t help but square my shoulders as the head of the Atlanteans moves deeper into the room. Quinn, too, has drawn straighter on her counter stool. She must feel my stare, because her slightly spooked eyes shift toward mine.
“Relax,” Tarian says, coming up behind Calanthe and tying his arms around her middle. His command has the opposite effect of calming. “If we wanted the two of you dead, we’d have shipped you back to your little sect.”
Calanthe flicks her fiancé’s wrist, her finger bumping against his solid gold watch. “Babe, that’s not nice.”
Although he doesn’t let go of Calanthe, his neck straightens, and his mouth flattens. “Their sect has been targeting us for years…”
“They are not their sect. Just like Gael Monta isn’t us.”
Tarian harrumphs, clearly unimpressed with her reasoning.
I am, though. “How can Quinn and I prove we’re not like them?”
“By going back in and dismantling their organization,” Malachi suggests.
Quinn’s jaw clenches. “Unless we wear your runes, that’s a death sentence.”
A smirk tugs at Malachi’s mouth. “You’re right, Miss Hayes. We should take you to the mine. What do you think, Tar?”
Tarian’s mouth kinks. “There’s plenty of space on the plane…”
Calanthe’s mouth twists around a hiss, while Electra utters a flat, “No.”
“They’ll be coming to Atlantis with us anyway, Elle,” Malachi points out. “Unless you trust someone else to watch them?”
She purses her pretty lips.
Malachi nods to the door. “A word, Elle.”
I watch them leave, my eardrums straining to follow. Instead, I walk over to the buffet and make myself a plate. I’m halfway done sampling all of the different dishes when they return. Well, Malachi does.
“This just came for you, Reeve,” Malachi says.
Even with a shattered lens, I succeed at catching the small box Malachi tosses my way. A logo I’ve never seen adorns the black cardboard. As I pull open the tabs, my eyebrows drop, then hitch high at its contents—an eyeglass case. “Are these magical?”
“No. Why?”
“Because it usually takes forever to get corrective lenses.” I swap my broken ones for the new pair, which must’ve cost a fortune, seeing as the lenses are as thin as fingernails and the frames not crafted from cheap plastic.
“Aren’t you glad we’re well connected?” he says.
Quinn’s dark eyebrows flatten. I know what she’s thinking, attuned to reading her face: I should be careful about accepting gifts from the Atlanteans.
Which is why I say, “I have money in the bag Electra confiscated. I’ll only keep the glasses if you allow me to pay for them, Mr. Hadez.”
Malachi flutters his fingers. “Let’s discuss it after our trip.”
The kitchen door opens.
Electra remains on the threshold, her body drawn tight with tension. “Cars are out front. Dorian and Diego just got to the plane with…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but I sense the ending—with Ines. “Pilots are ready when we are.”
Are Quinn and I part of the we?