“You have me,” he answered, and his hand circled my clit, the same slow, deliberate pressure he’d used on the trigger of his favorite rifle. My hips bucked. He anchored me, one armwrapped tight under my breasts, holding me up as he worked me harder, two fingers slipping inside and curling with ruthless precision.
I came so fast it was almost embarrassing; the kind of toe-curling, stomach-clenching climax that left my legs useless and my lungs on fire. I sagged against him, and he kept his fingers inside me, gentling the rhythm until the aftershocks faded to tremors.
He pulled out, washed his hand, then spun me to face him. I saw the hunger in his eyes, the wolf and the man both clawing at the surface.
He kissed me hard, his tongue filling my mouth with insistence. “You want me to stop?”
“No,” I said, desperate for more.
He smiled, just a flash of teeth, and pinned my wrists to the cool marble tile. His other hand found my hip, yanked it forward, and then he was inside me, all the way, in one brutal, perfect thrust. I bit his shoulder to keep from crying out, and he fucked me slow, methodical, like he had all the time in the world.
The water roared overhead. The world dropped away. I wanted to memorize every second: the flex of his arms, the way his jaw clenched, the hitch in his breath when he started to lose control. My whole body lit up, every nerve ending tuned to his, every bit of pain and pleasure the same electric current.
He lifted me, pressed my back to the wall, and drove into me until I forgot why we’d ever been apart. I clung to his shoulders, nails digging in, and let myself go a second time, shattering against him as he came inside me with a growl that made my insides shudder.
We stood there for a long time, breathing each other in, until the water ran cold. He wrapped me in a plush towel and sat me down on the vanity stool. He blow-dried my hair, the motions as careful as everything else he did. When it was half dry, he tookmy brush and curled the ends, the way I liked them, twisting each lock around his finger. I let him. I let him do all of it.
When he was done, he kissed my forehead and carried me to the bed. He gently laid me on my pillow and pulled the blankets up around me, tucking me in like a child.
He got in beside me, gathering me to his chest, and the last thing I heard before sleep took me was his voice, low and certain.
“I’m so thankful I found you again, bluebonnet. My life had no meaning without you,” he whispered. “I thought I’d always be alone, that love and happiness would always be just out of reach. I’m so glad I was wrong.” His lips were soft as I kissed him lightly.
I drifted into sleep, muscles warm and heavy, and didn’t wake until the sun was already painting stripes across the hotel’s velvet curtains.
The morning was cold and absurdly bright, the kind of blue that made the river look less like water and more like a mirror splitting the city in two. I pulled the beanie lower on my head, adjusted the strap of the canvas bag on my shoulder, and kept my chin down as I crossed the Pont de Bougival. The dew hadn’t burned off yet; everything was slick, the flagstones shining underfoot. My shoes squelched, and each step sounded way too loud.
According to the plan, I was supposed to blend in with the other artists. That was why we’d stopped at the supply store on Rue Cler, why Jess had insisted on a battered wooden easel, a fistful of graphite pencils, and a block of heavy paper that smelled like it had been milled in the last century. Even the paint-stained smock I wore was supposed to make me invisible. It was laughable. The minute I stepped onto the river walk,some eyes landed on me—either because I looked American or because I was one of only a few people out there before eight a.m.
I scanned the far bank, spotting the tell: a pair of white-haired men, each with a matching baguette under one arm, arguing politics or football over the rail. Behind them, barely noticeable, was the girl with the crimson pixie cut and the rose tattoo on her throat. Parker. She flicked her cigarette onto the cobbles, ground it out with her boot, and melted away before I could blink.
At the other end of the bridge, Jess and Wrecker sat at a terrace café, their chairs turned out to face the water. They wore sunglasses, drank espresso, and tried not to look like the most dangerous men in France. Every so often, Wrecker would make a show of fiddling with a tourist map or pointing at the spires of Saint-Germain, but I could feel their attention, sharp and heavy, as if they could will me through the next hour by force alone.
Gwen was somewhere nearby, blending into the scenery, casting her charms that would hopefully keep us safely obscured from anyone who would mean us harm.
Doc and Big Papa were the only ones truly hidden: parked in a battered white delivery van, engine idling, two blocks away. They monitored the comms, waiting for a code word or the first sound of trouble. I’d checked my phone three times since leaving the hotel, making sure the ringer was off and the battery full. It was the only thing I could control.
I walked slow, trying to get my breathing under control. The bag was heavier than I’d expected, the wooden slats of the easel biting into my collarbone. I clutched it harder, like it was a lifeline, and made my way down the steps to the lower dock.
There were already three painters set up at the edge, their canvases turned to catch the sunrise. The smell of turpentinewas thick in the air, along with the sour tang of cheap cigarettes. I continued to make my way towards them.
My stomach tried to claw its way up my throat. Brie looked nothing like I remembered. Of course I’d seen my mother yesterday. I hadn’t noticed how much she had changed. Where she used to stand tall and confident, her shoulders now hunched in a way I’d never seen before. She wore a navy trench and a bright yellow scarf; her gloved hands moving with the energy of a bird about to launch itself into the sky. Brie looked older—years older than the last photo I’d seen. She wore her hair in a sassy inverted bob; the ends dyed indigo and the roots black, her eyeliner flicked up into sharp little cat’s eyes. The sweater she wore was off-the-shoulder, revealing a silver glitter tank and a mess of necklaces, each more tangled than the last. Her leggings were so tight they looked painted on, and her boots were short, black, and scuffed. She didn’t look like a kid anymore. She looked like someone you’d cross the street to avoid.
The plan was to wait. Let them get used to me, let the world settle into routine, and then make the approach. But as soon as I saw Brie, all the air went out of my lungs and I just stood there, frozen.
“Move,” I whispered to myself. “You have to move.”
A light, deliberate cough sounded a few feet away. Gwen. She stood on the bridge above, dressed in a dove-gray overcoat, her white-blonde hair pulled back in a low bun. Every so often, she’d lift her hand and make a subtle flick of her wrist—a sign for Wrecker and the others that she was keeping the spell up. The veil. If it worked, it meant that anyone watching—Renault wolves, Steiner’s men, or the cops—wouldn’t see me as a threat. But nothing could keep me invisible to my own mother.
I gathered my courage, shouldered the easel, and started down the path toward them.
My mother looked up when I was ten paces away. Her eyes flicked over me once, registering every detail, then returned to her canvas. Brie didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink. I couldn’t tell if she’d even noticed me.
I set the easel down at the next patch of stone, close enough to see what they were painting, but not so close as to spook them. The cold seeped through the denim on my legs and bit into my knees. I fumbled a pencil from the case and started to draw, hands shaking so bad my first line was more zigzag than curve.
My mom broke the silence. “You’re early.”
The words came out flat as a tabletop.
