"Most men who break wrists at galas can't read." He sets the gun on the kitchen counter with the casual precision of someone who knows exactly where his weapons are at all times. "The apartment's safe. Separate entrance, like I said. The bathroom is through there. The main bedroom's yours. I use the second as an office, so I’ll take the couch."
"You don't have to?—"
"Yeah, I do." He moves to the kitchen and starts making coffee, even though it's past midnight. His hands are steady, efficient, the kind of competence that comes from doing something a thousand times. "You need sleep. Real sleep. The kind you can't get when you're wondering if the guy in the next room is going to try something."
"I have mace in my clutch."
"I'm aware. You've been gripping it since we left the car." He glances over his shoulder, and there's something almost like amusement in his eyes. “That’s smart on your part, but unnecessary when you’re with me. I meant what I said, Peyton. You're safe here."
"Men say that?—"
"A lot. I know." He pours two cups and brings one to me. Our fingers brush again, and there’s that same electric contact that shouldn't mean anything. "But I'm not saying it to get you comfortable. I'm saying it because it's true. You sleep, I watch. That's the deal."
“I like your plants,” I say, filling the pause in our conversation with mindless words.
I take the coffee, inhale steam that smells like dark roast and something else—cinnamon, maybe.
“Talia claims they help purify the air when I’m not…in town.”
Oh, his sister takes care of them.
“So, um, you don't sleep?"
"Not much. Not well." He continues drinking his black coffee and doesn't elaborate.
I should leave it alone. It’s been a long night, and I should just head to the bedroom, lock the door, and use the few hours until dawn to plan my next move. Instead, I stay in the kitchen, hip against the counter, watching Blake Delano exist in his natural habitat.
He's different here. Not softer, I doubt that this man does anything softly, but more real. The walls he keeps up in public are thinner, more transparent. I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders and the weight he carries in the tightness around his eyes. There’s a loneliness in the way he inhabits this space like he's still not sure he belongs anywhere.
"White Ember," I say, changing topics. "You said there were six girls. Did you know their names?"
His jaw tightens. "Why?"
"Because I want to know if you remember them or if they're just numbers in a story you tell to explain why you're not as bad as the rest of them.”
It's a cruel thing to say. I know it's cruel even as the words leave my mouth, but I need to know who I'm trusting. It’s important for me to understand whether the man standing in front of me is actually different from the others, or just better at pretending.
Blake sets down his cup with careful control. When he looks at me, his eyes are dark, dangerous, full of something that looks like rage barely contained.
"Irina," he says quietly. "Sixteen. She wanted to be a doctor. Elena. Nineteen. Pregnant and terrified. Yuki. Fifteen. She cried the whole way out but never made a sound because they'd trained her not to." He takes a breath. "Ana. Seventeen. She kept asking if I knew where to find her sister, who was already dead. Mei. Twenty. Fought like hell even though they'd broken her arm. And Sophia. Fourteen. She held my hand in the ambulance and didn't let go until they sedated her."
I feel like an ass.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Don't be. You were right to ask." He picks up his coffee, drinks, and sets it down again. "I remember all of them. Their names. Their faces. The way they looked at me like I was either salvation or just another kind of monster." His voice is rough and affected. "I gave each of them my number and told them to call if they needed anything. Only one ever did."
"Which one?"
"Sophia. She called two years ago. She wanted to know if I was proud of her because she'd just finished nursing school." Something shifts in his expression, almost like a smile, but sadder. "I told her I was. Then she thanked me for saving her life and hung up. Haven't heard from her since, but that’s a good thing. Means she’s moved on.”
I set down my own cup before I drop it. My hands are shaking.
"That's why you came back," I say. "Not because Silas ordered you to, but because you can't stand the idea of it happening again."
"Can you blame me?"
"No." I move closer without thinking, drawn by something I don't fully understand. "But it's going to get you killed. You know that, right? Men like your uncle don't forgive. They don't forget. And they sure as hell don't let people who burned their profitable operations walk away twice."
