Chapter 41
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
Silk swishes around my hips, heels clicking on the pavement as we stride in tandem toward Graham’s secret destination.
When he left my room earlier, he set the black gift box in my hands and instructed me to meet him in the pub downstairs once I was ready.
In it, a pair of black heels and the deep green, silky dress I’d seen in the Parisian boutique.
I couldn’t tell if I was more impressed by his impeccable guessing of my shoe and dress size, or the fact that he’d somehow remembered and had it delivered to Glasgow.
I felt particularly naked at first, the thin straps leaving no fabric to cover the scar on my arm.
But there’s no reason to hide it anymore—no agency to blend in for, no false identities to embody, no employer to relinquish myself to.
There’s only me: Sloane.
Orphan, former spy, lover of the color green.
It’s a short list, but I think maybe I can manage to grow it before my next assignment—wipe the ISA off the map or die trying—is complete. I always knew this was going to be a suicide mission, after all.
Graham seemed like he wanted to kiss me when I caught his eye in the pub.
He looked more handsome than I’d ever seen him, if that’s even possible—a dress shirt rolled to his elbows, the top two buttons undone, dark hair ever so slightly disheveled.
He downed the rest of his martini, gaze trained on me in a way that, for the first time, I knew I didn’t manipulate.
Instead, he brought my knuckles to his lips and spun me around.
His fingers grazed the raised skin of the scar on my forearm in silent curiosity, and I chose not to pull away.
“Mon coeur danse quand tu es là,” he said in my ear, leading me out the door by the small of my back.
I’ve been trying to recover ever since.
Now, on the darker side of the West End, I can hear the music before the nightclub even comes into view.
The distinct swell of trumpets, the syncopated rhythm of congas like hot honey flowing out onto the chilly Glasgow streets.
A single neon sign flickers above the doors—Baila!
—flanked by two huge bouncers who are busy with a queue of patrons already swaying to the music in anticipation.
Graham casts me a lopsided grin and wink over his shoulder, sending my pulse into an acrobatic fit. He laces his fingers through mine and pulls me across the street, where the bouncers immediately swing the doors open for us.
We’re plunged into a dark, narrow hallway, dimly lit from the floors.
I’m not thinking about ambushes or criminals or gunfights as Graham leads me down a spiral staircase, the band transitioning to a feverish rendition of Suavemente.
The dancefloor is a writhing, spinning, hopping mass of colors, pulsing with couples who look as if they spend all week here.
My lips reflexively form a lie the moment we arrive at the edge—something like, “I don’t know how to dance,”—but it’s so loud, it wouldn’t be audible even if I wanted to say it.
Graham raises an eyebrow, asking if this is alright, and I feel myself reply with a nod.
I can manage this—the not talking, simply existing and enjoying not being chased or hunted.
It’s an out-of-body experience when he whirls me through the crowd of spectators and onto the dancefloor. He tugs me back to him, a strong arm around my waist as my feet follow his and our hips twist to the beat.
Before I’m aware of it, I’m laughing, lights blurring into a fuzzy glow. I hardly need to think when I’m dancing with Graham, leaning into every touch and following his movements with ease.
He spins, and I twirl.
He pulls, and I follow.
I don’t even notice the song is ending until it does, and he swoops me into a low dip, a loose lock of his hair tickling my forehead. If I tip my chin up, his lips would be on mine. Based on the racing beat of our hearts and the way his eyes have fallen to my mouth, we’re thinking the same thing.
Movement around us slows to a molasses pace. The music sags, turning languid as the singer begins to croon Bésame Mucho.
Graham laughs and I bite my lip against a smile. I don’t even recognize myself.
We straighten and I’m in his arms again, this time closer—so close we could carry on a conversation. My stomach is in knots at the realization.
I can smell his cologne, feel the fabric of his dress shirt, hear his pulse stammering against my own.
I’m not capable of pretending around him anymore.
He unlocked the pieces of me I thought were well-hidden, and in return, I’m prepared to do anything—even rejecting my nature of survival and taking a nosedive into the unknown.
Perhaps, I think, this is love.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t ask,” Graham says, warm puffs shifting my hair and tickling my ear. “There’s nothing I’d like less than to ruin this.”
“Then don’t,” I reply.
The music swells.
Graham lifts me into the air by my waist and the back of my leg, sliding in a circle to the tempo before gently placing me on the floor. I’m breathless when he speaks again.
“You know I must.”
A thousand responses lodge in my throat.
“All I can say is that the circumstances of our assignment are changing at a rapid pace,” I reply, my tone sterile and completely contradictory to how close we’re dancing or why I’m struggling to avoid his gaze.
“Is that what this is to you?” Graham’s jaw is tense when he spins me out and back toward him. “An assignment?”
No, my mind screams.
I draw my shoulders back and stare at anything but him. “You need to make me a promise,” I say evenly, “two, actually. The first being that you’ll swear to do whatever my second request is.”
“There’s no reality in which I agree to those terms.”
“Fine.” I give a tight smile. “Then we have nothing to speak about.”
Graham’s hands tighten on my waist. “Just tell me.”
Our feet glide around each other in circles and fluid patterns.
“Do you promise?”
He meets my eyes. All my training is working overtime to keep me from falling apart. “Alright—I promise,” he says, and my heart sinks. “I’ll promise anything, Sloane, if it means you’ll stop communicating in riddles.”
A tiny, wry grin curls onto my mouth. “I wouldn’t know what that’s like,” I reply sarcastically, although my voice wavers.
“Sloane.” There’s a warning in his voice.
I swallow the lump in my throat and pretend to study the onlookers at the edge of the dancefloor.
A woman in a ruffled red dress, a couple more interested in each other than the dancing, a something gilded peeking out from behind a pair of legs, glinting in the lights.
Almost like… My steps falter, but Graham steadies me.
“What’s wrong—” he starts as I pivot out of his grip and toward the spectators.
They part like the Red Sea and stare as if I’ve lost my mind. My eyes jump from person to person, thoughts reeling a thousand miles a minute.
“What is it?” Graham asks in my ear. He’s towering behind me, more bodyguard than thief.
“I thought I saw—” I stop and shake my head. “Nevermind. We should make our way back, anyway.”
He doesn’t protest as I stalk back up the spiral staircase and out onto the sidewalk.
My skin prickles, the thin sheen of sweat meeting with frosty air and swiftly extracting all warmth from my body.
I fold my arms and cross to the less populated side of the street, dreading each second that hasn’t happened yet.
Graham shoves his hands in his pockets, matching my pace as he walks beside me, waiting to hear whatever condition he’s already accepted.
“When this is all over,” I start, unable to hide the thin, strained quality of my voice. “Once the Consultant is arrested… you need to disappear.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Gladly—although, it would help if you had answered my question from the train. Rome or Kyoto?”
My knuckles dig into that spot between my ribs. “No—” I clear my throat, but it’s fruitless. I’m barely holding it together as it is. “Without me. You need to disappear… without me. Not forever, just… until I can sort everything out.”
“What—” Graham reaches for my elbow and halts me in my tracks. “Will you stop?”
“You already promised,” I say, feeling more juvenile than I anticipated.
His eyes narrow to slits. “No, the answer is no, Sloane. What you’re asking me to promise is impossible.”
“But you said?—”
Graham lurches forward, gathering me in his arms, and plants my palm on his chest. “Do you feel that? Mon coeur danse quand tu es là, mon amour.”
My heart dances when you are here, my love.
“I’m a thief, a criminal,” he continues urgently, “I will break a thousand more laws and a thousand more of your rules if it means I can keep you safe.”
Unbidden tears prick the corner of my eyes. It’s as if allowing myself to cry once has opened the floodgates for the rest of time.
He takes my chin and tilts it up, forcing me to finally look at him. The final wall crumbles.
“It’s impossible,” I whisper frantically, “Raffaele has asked to trade my life for yours. There’s only one move left to play.”
His gaze darkens, imploring. “You want to save the world, Sloane—why won’t you let me save you?”
My mouth parts to reply when screeching tires rip us apart like a serrated knife.
The door to a windowless van has already been wrenched open when I register what’s happening and reach for my weapon.
“No!” Graham shouts, shoving me behind him.
Of all the illogical, idiotic?—
I watch three men in ski masks lunge at him.
He meets them halfway, landing a powerful right hook and an uppercut before something’s jabbed in his side.
Hands reach for my arms. My elbow flies up and meets bone with a delicious crack.
They stumble backward, shoes scraping pavement, cursing in Czech.
Another man reaches for me and I sidestep him, throwing a punch to his throat. My heel meets his crotch as he doubles over.
Graham’s being dragged into the van, limp-bodied. My blood runs cold.
The men who took him turn back to me. I fumble for the knife sheathed on my thigh, but they’re already advancing. My fingers curl into fists. I lift them to guard my face. The assailant on the ground rises. I register the hard glint of determination in his eyes far too late.
He charges. I try to dodge him, but he’s fast. Angry.
First it’s the impact.
Sharp, like a punch to my side.
Then I’m tingling and teetering, every nerve in my body erupting in protest. My pulse feels like it’s about to crack a rib. The pain—searing, as if he threw a cauldron of lava over my scalp—doesn’t sink in until I glance down. I gasp, but the sound is distant.
My beautiful dress, green and silky, is stained with crimson.
I recognize I’ve been stabbed once I crumple to the cold ground. Through blurred vision, I see boots circling me like hungry sharks. The faraway glow of the nightclub. Graham, hands cuffed behind him, laying slack in the van.
Did they stab him too? I wonder as the black spots swim.
And, while I’m yanked underneath the surface, my last thought echoes through my skull as it swirls down the drain. I’m not ready to die.