“That won’t take long.”
He glanced at her. “Take your time. We’re not in a rush.”
“No, I mean—” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture he was beginning to recognize as embarrassment. “It really won’t take long.”
Seven minutes later, and he finally understood what she meant, with Mira coming back to him with a single suitcase, a backpack, and a worn cardigan draped over her arm.
“This is it.”
No,Zacharie thought. It was not.
And that was because as soon as they arrived at his estate, he guided her straight to the study and gestured to his laptop.
“Shop.”
Mira blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”
“Online. Whatever you need. Clothes, books, art supplies—”
She laughed again, but this time the sound was softer. Wondering.
“I don’t need anything else.”
“That’s not true—”
“Is so,” she insisted. “But...there is one other thing you can help me.”
“Name it.”
Two hours later, and Zacharie deeply regretted his lack of caution.
They were seated across from each other in the living room, Mira curled up on the sofa with a notebook in her lap, her pen moving in quick, eager strokes as she documented his answers.
The interview—because that’s what this was, he realized too late—had started innocently enough.
“For the next Infernalis book,” she had explained, her eyes bright with creative excitement. “Luc has a backstory I’ve never fully explored. I thought maybe you could help me understand what it would really be like. The undercover work. The isolation. The...” She had hesitated. “The personal costs.”
He should have said no.
He should have recognized the trap for what it was.
Instead, he had nodded and settled into the armchair across from her, telling himself that this was simply research. Impersonal. Professional.
That delusion lasted approximately fifteen minutes.
“So during long-term assignments,” Mira said, her pen hovering over the page, “how did you...I mean, how do agents typically handle...” Her tone turned awkward. “Personal needs?”
Zacharie’s jaw tightened.
He could lie. Deflect. Change the subject.
But she had asked for honesty, and he had never been able to deny her anything.
“One-night stands,” he said flatly. “During foreign missions. To relieve pressure. They meant nothing.”
She nodded, scribbling notes, but he caught the way her shoulders tensed slightly.
“And relationships?” She kept her eyes on the notebook. “Did you ever...?”
