She was safe. The door was locked. I’d hear anyone coming up those creaking stairs long before they reached us.
A few minutes.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt safe enough to stop fighting.
My eyes closed.
And I let them.
Chapter 11
Clare
The first coherent thought my brain managed: No sirens.
Fantastic. I was awake, breathing, and nobody was actively hunting us with dogs and helicopters. Really raising the bar for morning victories.
Second: Warm.
Holy shit. I was actually warm. Not shivering, not teeth-chattering, not contemplating hypothermia as a lifestyle choice. The radiator was doing its job, the space heater glowing orange in the corner. My body felt loose, rested, like I’d actually slept instead of passed out from blood loss and exhaustion.
Third: Where the hell am I?
The room came into focus. Sloped ceiling, exposed beams, dormer window showing gray morning light over Lyon rooftops. Right. The hideout Xavier found on a piece of paper on a streetlamp on our way from the bus station. Six flights up, cozy as promised, small enough to be forgotten.
Fourth: Yesterday happened.
The clinic. The chip in Xavier’s spine. Two dead cops.
Blood pooling. Bodies dropping. The wet thud of...
Stop.
Normal people didn’t wake up after witnessing brutal murder feeling rested and hungry.
Then again, normal people didn’t harbor mute assassin fugitives either.
Speaking of which...
I turned, scanning for him. Where was...
There. On the floor beside the bed.
My chest tightened.
He’d fallen asleep against the mattress, upper body slumped forward. Face angled toward me in sleep. One arm curled beneath him, the other stretched across the duvet.
Still on guard. Protecting me even unconscious, like some kind of deadly security system that refused to quit. Choosing to watch over me instead of rest, even though he was still recovering from trauma that should have killed him.
Stubborn, self-sacrificing bastard.
In the daylight, I could see him clearly for the first time since that alley. Really see him, not the injuries and crisis.
He was beautiful. Dangerous assessment, but true. Strong jaw relaxed in sleep, lips parted, those ridiculous cheekbones casting shadows. Dark blond hair mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to smooth it back.
The scar through his left eyebrow was pale silver, old. Violence survived, pain endured, a killer’s body harboring unexpected softness.
My palm drifted toward his forehead.
