Chapter Six #3
The room was designed for intimidation and comfort in equal measure: a king bed big enough for four, sheets so fine they caught on the calluses of my hands, heavy dark furniture that had to be moved in with a crane.
A gas fireplace, recessed and glass-fronted, ran the length of the wall opposite the bed. French doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the grounds. Everything was positioned for maximum control, minimum vulnerability.
I looked at the space as I stripped Iren down to bare skin, peeling sweat-soaked tank and mesh shorts with the care of a surgeon working in a war zone. I wiped him down with a damp cloth, catching every stripe of blood and sweat, then used the soft edge of a towel to dry him off.
He didn’t wake, didn’t stir, even when I rolled him to his side to check the marks on his back. It was a familiar kind of trust, the trust of an animal that knows it won’t be eaten before morning.
I tucked the sheet around him, smoothing the fabric across his shoulders, and let my palm rest there a beat longer than necessary. The effect was immediate. Iren shifted, unconsciously, curling into the pressure. His breathing deepened.
I stood back and looked at him, spread out on my sheets, his hair a tangled mess on the pillow and his face finally free of the defenses he wore like armor. I wanted to climb in with him, immediately, but years of habit and a cocktail of adrenaline and something else wouldn’t let me.
Yuri knocked once at the door.
“Report,” I said.
He entered, glancing at the boy on the bed, then back to me. “No sign of a second tail. The car is registered to a shell in the city. Two hours ago it was parked in a church lot. The driver matches the build of the Tuesday regular. The Deacon.”
“Parsons,” I said.
Yuri nodded.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Bring me everything. Then bring me him.”
Yuri inclined his head and left.
I turned back to the bed. Iren had not moved. The hand that had been clutching my lapel now fisted the sheet instead. I stood there a long time, watching him. Wanting, in a way that was entirely new and entirely unwelcome. Wanting not to own, but to keep.
I did not analyze it. I did not diagnose it. Some things were better left unnamed. For the first time in a long time, I had something to protect.
And I was already counting the bodies it would take to keep it.
I stripped in the bathroom, dropping my suit in a pile on the marble.
The shower was a glass box with triple-jet fixtures, hot water calibrated to the degree.
I stepped in and let the heat burn the grime from my skin.
The bruises on my hips and thighs, souvenirs from earlier, bloomed fresh under the spray.
I watched the water bead and run down my forearms, washing pink in the basin before swirling away. The urge to go back into the bedroom was so strong it was a physical ache in my gut, but I forced myself to finish the routine: scrub, rinse, repeat.
I toweled off and ran a hand through my hair, then pulled on clean black boxers and a T-shirt, both soft enough to keep from scratching the abrasions on my shoulders.
At the threshold to the bedroom, I paused, drinking in the sight of him in my bed, one arm flung out over the empty space where I planned to be in less than sixty seconds.
I grabbed my cell phone and called Lin from the bathroom doorway, my voice low so as not to wake the boy. “Breakfast for two,” I said. “Nine o’clock. And clothes for the guest.”
“Preferences?” Lin asked.
I considered. “Something comfortable. He’s smaller than me, but not fragile.”
“I’ll see to it,” Lin said, and hung up.
The efficiency was better than family. The loyalty was absolute.
I got into bed, careful not to disturb the lines of the sheet more than necessary. Iren was still dead asleep, mouth open, cheek mashed against the pillow. I lie on my side, close enough to touch, but not touching.
For a minute, I just watched him, cataloguing the micro-movements of his face, the way his eyes twitched under the lids, the small quiver in the muscle just below his jaw. I traced the ridges of his spine with my eyes, counting vertebrae.
I told myself I’d just watch, but after less than a minute I reached out, flattening my hand against his back. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and the thrum of his heartbeat was visible at his neck.
I slid closer, letting my chest press into his back, my legs bracketing his. He made a sound—not a protest, but more like the sleepy complaint of someone being woken from a dream.
He twisted, slow, until his face was turned up toward mine, eyes still half-shut and dark with the last dregs of exhaustion.
I waited. I wanted to see if he’d say anything.
He didn’t. He just reached out, blindly, and found my arm, anchoring himself there. His hand flexed, nails dragging lightly against my skin, and then he settled, burrowing his nose against my bicep.
I closed my eyes and let the reality of the moment settle in. I had him, here, in my bed, within the reach of every defense I’d ever constructed. It should have made me feel powerful.
Instead, it made me feel exposed, in the way a man feels exposed when he realizes he has one thing left to lose.
Iren’s body fit against mine with the unconscious precision of a long habit, as if he’d always belonged there. I let my hand roam over his hip, up his ribcage, down the line of his thigh. He didn’t stir. He just breathed, the rhythm syncing up with mine.
I lay there, thinking. About the tail on the road.
About Parsons and his predictable escalation.
About how, in the morning, the first thing I would do is send Yuri to clean up whatever mess awaited us.
About how Iren’s apartment was not only a security risk, but an insult to anyone who wanted to claim him.
I thought about how easy it would be to make it disappear. About how much easier it would be to convince him to stay.
I thought about the word he’d said in the amber room, the word that had surprised both of us. Yours.
I thought about the way he’d looked up at me, unafraid, and chosen to move forward anyway. The kind of bravery that can only come from having nothing left to protect.
I thought about how that made me feel, and realized it didn’t matter. He was mine. The logic was simple, even if the feeling wasn’t.
I squeezed him, just a little, and felt him breathe. I let the warmth of him anchor me. Tomorrow, the world would try to take it away.
Tonight, it was enough just to keep it.