“Something for you to put on.” He held out the shirt, his voice flat, his expression shuttered.
She took it slowly, her fingers careful not to brush his as the fabric exchanged hands. She set it aside, her stare never leaving him.
“What do you plan to do with me?” The question came quietly, stripped of accusation. Candid curiosity wrapped in genuine fear.
“I don’t know.” The words escaped before he could stop them, honest in a way he hadn’t intended.
Her brow furrowed as she turned her head, ripping her gaze away in a manner that stole his breath. He wanted to order her to look at him again, but he also wanted to see what she would do next. She didn’t seem to care what he thought of her, when most people were consumed by his opinion of them.
Her gaze drifted across the room, and he followed the path of her attention.
The leather box sat on the side table near his chair, its contents exposed where he had left it hours ago. Folders fanned across the surface, each one labeled with a number rather than a name. And resting on top, clearly visible, the file marked 1922.
Her file.
She stood abruptly, the blanket slipping down one shoulder before she caught it. He beat her there, their fingers brushing as he swiped the file out of reach.
“Why do you have that?” Her voice hardened. When he didn’t answer, she scowled. “That’s me. I’m 1922.”
Jack moved quickly, stuffing the file into the box with the others and pressing the leather lid down tight. “That doesn’t concern you.”
“Yes, it does.”
She clutched the blanket tighter, her knuckles whitening against the ruby silk. Her gaze dropped to his hand, and he followed her glare to where his signet ring caught the firelight.
“If you’re Jack, who is R.A.?”
His thumb moved instinctively to the ring, spinning it once around his finger before he forced himself to stop. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”
“How?”
The word hung in the air between them, demanding an answer. Not who but how.
Seconds stretched into silence, and that silence strained towards a confession.
She read the truth in what he didn’t say, in the way his jaw tightened and his eyes turned cold and distant.
Something shifted in her eyes, and her gaze flicked away. She pressed a hand to her throat as if reaching for something that wasn’t there, then swallowed.
Her gaze drifted toward the fireplace, lingering on the sharp iron tools resting against the stone hearth. She returned to her chair, her fist closing slowly around the silver fork speared into a wedge of brie.
“I told you I won’t hurt you.”
“Pardon me if I don’t believe you.” The words carried no heat. Only the quiet resignation of someone who had stopped relying on others long ago.
Jack understood. He had worn that same resignation as a boy, had wrapped himself in distrust like armor because hope was too dangerous to carry. He wanted to explain. Wanted to tell her things he never told anyone, so she would know he understood.
She saw him as something other than herself, but they were more alike than she realized. He had been hunted for years, sold for the pitiful price of beans, dehumanized like livestock. Unlike her, he’d had no choice. His long climb from poverty to power had nearly killed him.
Those who watched didn’t give a shit when he cried. They let it happen, right under their noses. Politicians, men of the cloth, giants who had the power to make it stop. They all did nothing.
In the end, it was a penniless prostitute and a broke teacher who saved him. He could have told her all of that if he only had the ability to say the words.
Instead, he turned and said, “I have to check on something.”
She rose quickly, clutching the fork to her chest where she gripped the blanket.
Jack’s steps faltered as his gaze betrayed him, dropping to the milky slope of her shoulders, the delicate structure of her collarbones, the shadowed valley between her breasts. Heat stirred low in his belly, unwelcome and undeniable.
