Chapter 13
Seared and Studied
JULIETTE
The canvas flap settled behind me with a soft hush, leaving me alone with every place Nick Mercer hadn't touched yet.
Finally. No more layering of wind through Acacia or the erratic soundtrack of the bush. Just the slow sweep of the bamboo ceiling fans, the straight timber posts, the taut canvas seams. Stillness, ordered.
In theory.
I set my phone on the counter and stayed still. Heat clung to the back of my neck. My pulse steadied. The engine hadn’t left my bones yet.
The linen shirt loosened next, one button at a time. The fabric was stiff with grit and the humidity of the trek, clinging briefly at my ribs before I peeled it off one shoulder.
The dragon curved along my spine. Coiled.
Waiting. Hidden unless I chose otherwise.
For me, it was a very personal decision made a decade ago.
It wasn't a public statement. It was a private anchor—something I carried under the surface to remind me who I was when people mistook restraint for weakness.
My phone pinged. Then again.
SISTER CHAT
Perfect timing. Lie, deflect, or provide just enough truth to avoid detonation.
RAYANN: Check-in. Now, Jules. That’s a summons, not a request.
brYNN: She’s definitely doing the "minimal disclosure" thing. I can see her staring at the screen, calculating exactly how many syllables she can get away with.
SUMMER: Answer the woman. And don't give us the weather report. We need an update on the ranger.
Ah. Commander Summer had entered the chat.
The Malbec caught the light as I filled a glass, a dark, liquid stain. I didn’t drink.
ME: I’m in my suite. He isn't here yet, but he’s coming back for dinner.
brYNN: “Coming back” is doing a lot of work here.
brYNN: And dinner?
brYNN: Wait. Is he cooking for you?
brYNN: JULIETTE.
brYNN: You don’t even let us into your kitchen.
RAYANN: That’s not dinner. That’s a mating ritual.
ANNIE: Statistically, providing a high-protein meal in a private setting increases interpersonal bonding by 40%. It’s a pattern, Jules. You don’t invite a man back for Wagyu if you’re planning on staying "contained."
SUMMER: This is post-event calm. I recognize the tone. You went radio silent once already. You don’t repeat that kind of decision unless it’s no longer a mistake.
I shifted, pushing off the table too quickly. The movement landed louder than it should have.
ME: It’s a temporary situational adjustment. It was a long day. I climbed a tree.
brYNN: I’m fucking sorry—you did the fuck what? You don't climb. You delegate climbing. You don't even like uneven pavement.
RAYANN: Why were you in a tree, Jules? And more importantly, where was your ranger while you were playing wood nymph?
ME: There was an… excited… warthog. We had a disagreement about personal space.
brYNN: Pumbaa or the ranger?
ANNIE: Did he catch you? Because if you’re in a tree and Hot Ranger is on the ground, there is only one way that ends.
ME: Yes. He caught me. It was efficient.
The screen exploded. I had to scroll just to keep up.
RAYANN: He caught you? Like, actually caught your entire person? That’s physical trust under stress. That’s a romance novel happening in real time.
EMME: I KNEW IT. This is officially romantic.
brYNN: For fuck's sake, ladies. She almost DIED.
EMME: Are you actually okay? Like, "heart-rate-normal" okay, or "I’m-about-to-do-something-reckless" okay?
ME: I’m fine. But he has a "coordinated re-entry" time, and I’m ending this conversation now.
brYNN: "Coordinated re-entry." My god, you’re even starting to talk like him. Fine, go. But if you’re planning on any more "vertical decision-making" tonight, at least send a photo of the ranger first. For safety.
ANNIE: And the warthog. I want to see what caused the lapse in logic.
RAYANN: Keep your phone on. Call me if the "containment" fails.
I closed the app. The silence of the suite rushed back in, broken only by the faint click of the lantern and the insects tuning up outside.
The wine still sat untouched on the table. I picked it up and swallowed it in three hard pulls, because apparently that was the level of composure available to me now.
The shower came next. Fast. Hot. Functional, until my hand slid between my thighs and proved function had left the chat the second Nick said dinner. Two minutes with my vibrator should have taken the edge off.
It did not.
Excellent. A medical mystery.
I dried off, moved to the wardrobe, and pulled out the dark silk shift.
Armor, but with a different set of teeth. If Nick expected a surrender tonight, he was working from a very limited perspective.
The knock on the frame came once.
I opened the canvas entry. Nick stood braced against the timber post, a paper bag in one hand fragrant with rosemary, garlic, and cracked pepper, a bottle of wine tucked under his other arm.
He’d cleaned up, which somehow made the dust on his boots more noticable.
Olive shirt, sleeves rolled, top button undone.
Dark field trousers riding his hips with the kind of casual injustice that should have required a permit. Not formal. Worse. Intentional.
“You’re early.”
“No, I’m not.”
He stepped inside, and the air tightened.
He didn’t ask where anything was. He crossed to the suite’s small service counter like he’d been there before and set down the bag.
Out came heirloom carrots, fingerling potatoes, and two vacuum-sealed Wagyu filets.
Then his attention shifted to the covered deck, where a compact gas grill waited in the shadows.
“You brought provisions,” I said.
“Dinner,” he corrected.
“Wine?” he asked, already opening a bottle from a local vineyard. He didn’t wait for an answer. He poured a glass and slid it across the island toward me.
Nothing about him rushed. Nothing about him fumbled. He began prepping the carrots, the knife moving through the roots in smooth, practiced strokes that made competence look unfairly attractive.
“Who taught you that?” I asked.
The knife paused against the cutting board. His expression didn’t change, but something behind it locked into place.
“My father was a career diplomat,” he said, the knife moving with terrifying efficiency.
“He believed that if you couldn't hold a conversation in three languages and prep a four-course meal without breaking a sweat, you weren't fit for the room. The finessing came later—mostly in the UK, during the breaks from boarding school.”
“You do this often?” I asked, taking a sip of the wine. It was excellent. Dark cherry, cedar, and a peppery finish that lingered.
He stilled, the blade hovering just a hair above the cutting board.
He looked at me then—a thorough, unhurried assessment that had more of a London gentleman’s scrutiny than a soldier's stare.
“I don't make a habit of this, Juliette.
And I certainly don't cook for people who can't appreciate a proper sear. It’s a waste of good protein and a perfectly fine Malbec.”
The way he said my name made the whole service counter feel smaller. A ridiculous part of me wanted to ask which category I’d earned. The proper sear, the good protein, or the perfectly fine Malbec.
Without looking up, he added, “There was a pub in Oxfordshire where the landlady traded cooking lessons for heavy lifting. She was more disciplined than my CO.”
The carrots fell into even cuts. “I’ve narrowed down my hypothesis, by the way.”
I leaned against the counter. “To what.”
“The tattoo.” He glanced at me—a quick, assessing look. “International art thief? Assassin on sabbatical?”
“It’s much more dangerous than that.”
“Interesting choice for someone who doesn’t leave things to chance.”
“I was a defense attorney, Nick. Logic isn't just a preference. It’s the weapon.”
I took a step closer. Not enough to crowd him, but enough to shift the temperature. “I’d pay to see your face,” I said softly, “when you find out why I keep a monster on my spine.”
His eyes cut to the curves beneath the silk. Then back to mine.
“Humor me,” he said.
A clean strike.
“The day before my first criminal case,” I said. “I was twenty-four. Surrounded by partners who had already decided I was a pretty doll they could break.”
I took another sip of wine, holding his gaze over the rim of the glass.
“The dragon wasn't for them,” I added. “I didn't need them to see it. I just needed to know that while they were looking at my legs and my fresh-out-of-law-school face, I was the one with the teeth.”
His focus locked. Not a softening—a sharpening. He stepped into my space. No hesitation.
His hand lifted and settled at the small of my back. His fingers grazed the silk exactly where the dragon’s tail coiled.
“I like that,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “The hidden teeth. It explains a lot.”
Heat pressed through the silk at my back. My breath caught. Once. I stayed.
“But why a dragon.”
I smiled faintly.
“Because I’m a fantasy nerd.”
His brow lifted.
He didn’t laugh.
Didn’t move.
Just watched me like he was recalibrating something.
“Dragons. Power, intelligence, protective tendencies.” I paused. “Strong personal branding.”
I met his gaze, his thumb circling along my spine.
“Hungry, Nick?” I asked, my voice holding steady. “I thought you were here to cook.”
He pulled his hand away. The pressure lingered.
“I am,” he said, lifting the steaks from the counter and turning toward the deck. “But I don’t work on an empty stomach.”
The grill waited beyond the canvas opening, its metal lid catching the last of the light.
He didn’t rush the steak.
Heat, timing, attention.
While he handled the grill, I brought the place settings out to the deck. Plates. Linen napkins. Silverware. Two wine glasses that caught the amber edge of sunset.
It should have felt practical.
It did not feel practical.
Nick looked over as I arranged the last fork.
“Sit down, Juliette.”
“I can set a table.”
“I know.”
Then, quieter, “You’ve had a day.”
I didn’t move. “You’re very comfortable giving instructions in someone else’s space.”
He plated the steaks with maddening efficiency, the aroma of garlic and butter filling the gap between us. He didn't look back as he carried the plates to the small table overlooking the darkening bush.
"I am. I won't apologize for it."
"It's just an observation, Nick."
I didn't sit.
"You know what I observe, Wilder?"
He set the plates down with a quiet, deliberate click and straightened, filling the narrow space between the table and the deck rail. He reached for his glass, took a slow, grounding sip of Malbec, then set it back down.
Closer now, the scent of seared Wagyu clung to him, sharpened by the cool night air moving over the deck.
“I’ve seen people come through here with more money than sense,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register.
“They want the wild without the risk. A story they can edit later.”
Another step brought him within reach of the counter. “You didn’t do that.” His gaze held mine, unblinking. “You asked the right questions. Saw it for what it was.”
The air in the suite seemed to hum. “When shit hit the fan, you didn’t freeze.” His voice dropped an octave, rough and private. “You climbed.” Something moved behind his eyes—not amusement, but a deep, quiet approval. “Most don’t.”
His hand came up, thumb brushing my cheek. He traced the line of my jaw, the roughness of his skin catching there.
My lungs stalled. Then corrected.
“I see a woman who knows exactly where she is…” A pause. “…and doesn’t scare easy.” His mouth hovered near mine, close enough that I could taste the wine on his breath. “And that?” The words brushed my mouth. “Gets my attention.”
Nick brushed his lips against mine, careful, restrained, and devastatingly sure.
He didn't pull away, his forehead resting against mine for a heartbeat.
"That," he whispered, "is what I've observed."