: Chapter 22

It was a brutal winter.

The rain turned to hail.

The hail turned to snow.

And I’d never seen it snow in Paris.

The jubilation I felt at my daughter’s return quickly faded. Not because I took her for granted. Not because I missed my own space. But because Beatrice had decided to be a fucking cunt and break my daughter’s heart.

It wasn’t broken yet because she didn’t understand.

But one day, she would.

Beatrice left a goddamn mess behind, and it was my burden to clean it up. I was the one who would have to answer Claire’s questions. I was the one who would have to watch her heartbreak. I was the one who would have to teach my daughter that she wasn’t the problem—her mother was.

It was a lesson I should never have to teach my daughter.

But I was also miserable for another reason.

I had to fulfill my oath to Bartholomew.

Back to the streets. Back to the shadows. Back to the lies.

I was always up early in the morning, even before Claire, so I stood in the kitchen and watched the espresso drip into the cup before the steaming hot water was added. The crème from the beans floated at the top, an Americano just as good as one I could grab from the café down the street.

I leaned against the counter and brought it to my lips for a drink.

Constance was there, her footsteps so light I hadn’t noticed them tap against the hardwood floor. She had deep-brown hair, long and thick, shaggy now because she hadn’t brushed it after she got out of bed. She’d been in my clothes for the past week because she had nothing else. There was no makeup on her face. Up until this point, I’d never looked at her, never paid attention to her, didn’t care for her existence.

But I looked at her now.

She halted on the other side of the large kitchen, her green eyes observing me with the same scrutiny with which I observed her. Our conversation last night ended when I didn’t reply to her words. She’d left her scotch behind and gone to bed.

I held her gaze, mug in hand. “Morning.”

She watched me, her posture relaxing, the fierceness in her eyes fading. “Morning…”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.”

I used the machine to make another Americano then handed it over.

She took it in her hands and blew the steam off the surface. “That looks just like the espresso machines at the cafés.” She moved to the other kitchen island and leaned against it, blowing on her espresso because it was still too hot to drink.

“I drink a lot of coffee.”

“And scotch, apparently.”

I leaned against the counter once again, my fingers tight on the handle. “The coffee is to stay awake. The scotch, to sleep.”

Like she understood, she gave a nod. “I drink scotch to forget…even though it never works.”

Nothing ever worked. I’d tried it all. “I’ve decided to put Claire back in school. She starts after the weekend.”

“Oh, good. She’s excited to go back.”

“Yeah.” I questioned whether it was the right move, but I couldn’t hog her forever. She seemed well, and holding her back from normal life was selfish on my part. If she had any residual anxiety, it would probably improve if she was around her friends again, doing normal things like finger painting and math…even though she hated math.

“How do you want to handle that?”

“I’m working nights now. You’ll need to drop her off in the morning and pick her up afterward.”

“That’s fine.”

“And let the housekeeper in during the day so she can take care of the apartment.”

“Well…I can clean.”

“It’s fine.”

“It could save you money—”

“I don’t need to save money.”

She dropped her gaze to her coffee, blew the steam away, and took a drink. “What about your contracting business?”

“It’s over.”

“Maybe you should do jobs here and there, keep up the pretense.”

The last thing I wanted to do was work two jobs.

“I can help too. You know, scheduling, ordering supplies, bookkeeping, whatever…”

I contemplated the idea with dread. I was already a father and a Chasseur. Now I had to take on small jobs just so Claire could think I was a good man who did honest work. But I didn’t see another alternative. How would I explain my absence as she got older? “Alright.” My hand slid into my pocket, and I pulled out a wad of cash along with a debit card. I set it on the counter beside her then backed away once more.

She took it and examined the bills. “What’s this?”

“For anything that you need.”

She examined it a moment longer before returning it to the counter. “I still have some of the money you gave me before.”

“That won’t last forever.”

“Um…for me, it will.” Her mug remained in one hand, the steam still a cloud hitting her face. “I’ve lived on a dancer’s salary. I definitely know how to budget.” She left the money there, no intention of taking it.

“Just take it.” I didn’t have the temperament to do this. It reminded me of the check dance. It’d been a long time since I’d been on a date, and I hated dates. I hated talking. I hated people. I hated bullshit.

“But I don’t need it—”

“You’ll need the card to pay for things for both of you. Just accept it.”

“You saved my life, so you don’t need to pay me—”

“You can show your gratitude by accepting it instead of wasting my time with this bullshit conversation.”

A wince moved onto her face.

I stared her down, unapologetic even though I was fully aware I was a heartless dick.

The mug remained between her fingertips, her eyes piercing mine as much as mine were piercing hers.

I refused to look away first, so I waited for her to bow out.

She didn’t.

Her silent disobedience annoyed me, and I was certain that reflected on my face, the tightness in my jaw, the way I ground my teeth together. “Yes?” The word came out, hard like a rock.

“Just waiting for an apology.” She brought the mug to her lips and took a drink.

The smirk was instinctive. The scoffing breath was too. With my coffee in hand, I walked out.

I put Claire to bed, tucked her in with a kiss on the forehead, and then returned to the sitting room in front of the fireplace. The flames burned low, and I stared at them as I waited for them to snuff out.

The decanter of scotch was there, but I didn’t fill my glass.

Constance emerged from the hallway, in sweatpants and a t-shirt that she’d bought with the money she finally accepted me from me. The clothes actually fit her, and I finally had my shit back.

She watched me for a bit, her slender arms crossed over her chest, her petite waist cinched underneath.

I ignored her stare for a while before I met it head on.

She didn’t flinch at my look like most people did. She didn’t take my bullshit like most people did either, but she also didn’t lose her composure, which was pretty telling. She sat in the armchair beside me and glanced at the untouched scotch.

“Used a gun before?”

Her eyes flicked to me, her eyebrows slightly raised. “Just a knife…”

“Want one?”

Her eyes held mine for a moment, in slight disbelief. “I don’t think I should have one around Claire.”

“You could keep it in a safe in your bedroom if you want.”

“Do you think…I’ll need one?”

“No.” No one ever crossed me. “It’s for your peace of mind.”

“I’ll stick with the dagger. Worked pretty well in the past.” Her eyes dropped down, as if reliving the moment. “Are you leaving?”

My sweatpants and bare chest had been replaced with black jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved black shirt. But the biggest tell was the untouched scotch, probably. “Yes.”

Her hard expression suddenly tightened, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes fearful. Now she looked like the woman I’d met at the cult, on her knees, watching Claire leave while she was forced to stay behind.

“Don’t be scared.”

She didn’t try to hide it. “I just… I feel better when you’re around.”

“Just because I’m not here doesn’t mean I’m not around. Those freaks know that.”

“Then why did they take Claire in the first place?”

Having her home for a couple weeks helped me forget she was ever gone. The strain of my despair had quickly faded once she was in my arms again. I did my best not to dwell on the past, because it would only drown me in sorrow, make me break my vow of peace, so the question of why didn’t enter my mind. “They didn’t know who she was.”

She gave a nod in agreement.

“But now they do know—and they won’t fuck with me again.”

Her eyes dropped down to her hands, visibly uneasy.

“And, by extension, you.”

She raised her chin once again, her hands together in her lap. “When I was there, it was only survival. My entire focus was on finding a way out of that place. But now that I’m here, it’s somehow worse. Instead of looking to the future, all I can think about is the past. I wish I were like Claire…just getting back to normal like nothing happened.”

Her long hair was in a loose bun at the back of her head, her jawline sharp, her neck elegant and long. When the fire wasn’t in her eyes, it was just a deep chasm of darkness. Eternal. “It’s normal.”

“What’s normal?” she whispered.

“PTSD.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, giving a knowing stare.

“It’ll get better.”

Her eyes held mine, and eventually, she gave a slight nod.

“You have my full protection—always.” She was the only person who had my undying loyalty. Bartholomew used to be that person, but that connection went to shit when I walked away. There was no shadow behind me anymore. He didn’t have a knife in the back of the person that had a knife in my back.

That seemed to give her comfort because the tightness of her body released with her next breath. “I know you can’t stay here forever. I’ll just have to get used to it.”

“You will.” I pulled out the phone from my pocket and set it on the end table between us. “Text me if you need to talk. If it’s an emergency, call. I’ll take your call regardless of what I’m doing, so don’t cry wolf.” I got to my feet and walked past her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Instead of reaching for the phone, she grabbed the scotch. She filled a glass, brought it to her lips, and drank it as she stared at the fire.

My eyes lingered on the side of her face for a moment, watching her nurse her fears the way I’d nursed my sorrow every night Claire was gone.

The Catacombs flickered with light from the torches, casting shadows in the empty eye sockets of the dead that lined the halls. Drafts came and went, moving through the cracks, making the light flicker for just an instant.

When I made it to the Great Hall, all eyes were on me.

Gill stared with empty eyes. Barter masked his frown with a drink of his beer. Men I used to know looked at me as if I didn’t belong there, as if I had something to prove, as if I had to jump higher than I ever had before if I had any chance of making up for what I’d done.

I didn’t belong here anymore.

My place was at home with Claire, being a decent and honest man, someone she would be proud of when she was old enough to look at me as a friend instead of just a father. But this was the price I had to pay.

Bartholomew was spread out on his throne, knees apart, military boots flat against the stone, one elbow propped on the armrest while his fingers dropped against the carved wood. Dark eyes stared into mine, watching me approach with indifference.

I stopped, the silence louder than it’d ever been.

Bartholomew stared.

I stared back.

He pushed himself to his feet, his eyes level with mine, his arms by his sides.

We used to be brothers. We used to be closer than I was to my own brother. The camaraderie, the trust, it was all gone now. Sometimes it pained me. I’d had to choose between him and Claire—and I still didn’t regret that decision.

His eyes were empty, so it was hard to know if he had the same thoughts I did. Or maybe he had no thoughts at all. Wouldn’t be surprised.

He extended his hand to me and let it hang between us.

I held his gaze before my hand slid into his.

He gripped me.

I gripped him.

He let go first. “Let’s try this again.”