Chapter Eight #2
“There were cameras on me the whole time, I’m sure of it.
If I’d looked, it would’ve given the whole thing away.
But I’m almost positive. And I left a tracker there,” I add.
Instantly Kit’s eyes are on me again, wide and unwavering.
“I found it in the hem of your cardigan, right here.” I guide his fingers to the unraveled thread that still hangs from his sweater. “I didn’t know it was there, but—”
“You didn’t activate it?” says Kit, his voice catching with disbelief. “You had a tracker and—”
“We don’t know it’s the list, not for sure,” I say.
“And besides, we don’t have any proof tying Ben to Fox Rex or the Abr.
But if I can get another face-to-face with Guy, and if I can make him believe I’m on his side—that we’re both on his side, and that we have no idea Fox Rex is connected to the Abr—then maybe we stand a chance at getting him to slip up. ”
Despite the heaviness of the night, I feel like something fizzy is bubbling up inside me. For once in all of this chaos, I’m useful, and if Kit knows what’s going on from the start, he won’t have to panic. Even better if he’s actually with me.
But I don’t expect the way his expression grows guarded, and my buoyancy fades. “What?” I say, but Kit blinks, as if I’ve pulled him out of a trance, and he brushes a lock of hair from my forehead.
“Nothing,” he says. “Have you told Singh any of this yet?”
I shake my head. “I promised I would after I saw you.”
“The sooner, the better, I think,” says Kit. “Once he knows you left a tracker, he’ll want to activate it and—”
“I don’t want to tell him about the tracker.”
Silence fills the space between us, as hard and heavy as steel. “You don’t?” says Kit, clearly struggling to understand. “But the list—”
“We don’t know it’s the list,” I repeat. “And if MI5 goes in before we confirm it, we could be throwing away the whole mission for nothing. It’s not worth it. Not when we still need proof that Ben’s involved, too.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches. “And if they try to take you again? Or me?”
My mouth goes dry, and I don’t have an answer for that. The terror of losing him that ripped through me earlier—it still resonates now, carved into me like a scar from a lightning strike. And I’m not sure I can handle another round, either.
But I also can’t handle another attack on my family, and while I’ll do anything to protect Kit and make sure he never hurts like this another day in his life, I’ll also do anything to guarantee that Ben never raises a finger against my parents and sister again.
Or funds anyone who tries it in his name.
Kit seems to take my silence for what it is—confusion and overwhelm—and he pulls me gently to him once more. “We both need sleep,” he says. “I’ll clean up, and—”
“I’ll help,” I say. “We’ll replace everything tomorrow, okay? Maybe take a shopping trip to London in disguise or something. Make it like none of this ever happened.”
But it did happen, and as we both get unsteadily to our feet, the tension in the air makes it impossible to forget.
When we leave the bedroom to hunt for a vacuum, Singh and a medical team swiftly corner us, and Kit and I spend the rest of the evening being stitched up and interrogated within an inch of our lives.
Again and again, Singh has me repeat everything I can remember about my encounters with Dylan and Guy Fawkes, and each time I skip over the part about the possible list and the tracker I left in Guy’s office, I can feel Kit’s eyes on me, but I do nothing to give the game away.
Not until we have evidence tying Ben to the Abr, too.
This can’t be for nothing. I refuse. I refuse.
Hours later, Kit and I finally collapse into bed, and we fall asleep tangled together, neither willing to let the other go.
When I wake up in the morning, weak gray light streams through the open blinds, and it takes me a moment to remember what happened the night before.
When I do, my eyes fly open as I grope around the empty bed, my heart already in my throat.
Kit. Where’s Kit?
I stumble barefoot into the living room, vaguely aware that someone must have vacuumed the glass shards out of the carpet the night before. The curtains are open, letting the cloudy dawn through, and to my relief, Kit stands at the stove, pushing something around a pan.
“Are you okay?” I blurt. He looks up and nods, and I immediately notice the dark circles under his eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Some,” he admits as I cross the dining area toward him, and he scrapes the contents of the pan onto two plates. “I made scrambled eggs and toast. I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but you didn’t eat dinner last night, and—”
“Thank you,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind and pressing my cheek to the fresh T-shirt that clings to his back. “I’m starving.”
The air that felt so charged between us the night before has settled now, or at least I think it has. But when he turns to kiss me good morning, there’s something strange about the look in his eyes—distant, maybe, or avoidant. Almost like he’s ashamed.
I don’t press, not when the wounds we opened last night are still so tender.
And once breakfast is ready, we bring it to the dining table and sit down together like we always do.
Like this is just another normal day in Oxford, and we’re a normal couple whose entire world didn’t almost end last night.
“So. Shopping day?” I say, flashing him a devil-may-care smile. “I was hoping to get an upgraded laptop anyway. My CPU can’t handle some of the programs Singh is throwing my way, and—”
Kit clears his throat, and my smile fades. He still won’t look at me. “Evan. Ev,” he says, toying with his mug of tea. “I need to talk to you about something.”
I spread butter across my toast as nonchalantly as possible. “Only if you want to,” I say. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. I mean it.”
“I know. And I appreciate that,” he says gruffly. “But…it’s not about that. It’s about—”
Our front door flies open with a bang, and the newly repaired frame almost cracks in half for the second time in less than a day. Kit jumps to his feet, placing himself squarely between me and the doorway, where I catch a glimpse of Singh and—
Victor Stephens, the head of palace security, along with half a dozen PPOs.
“Pardon our interruption, my lord,” says Stephens with a bow of his head, and Kit’s muscles clench even tighter than before. “Miss Bright, I’m under orders to take you into my custody immediately.”
“What? Why?” I say, craning my neck to peer around Kit. “Is this about last night? Because I’m fine—”
“It’s not about last night,” says Singh, and his lips are pursed with what looks almost like…an apology? Sympathy?
No. It looks like grief.
“I’m to accompany you both to Balmoral Castle immediately,” says Stephens. “It’s His Majesty.”