Kane’s attention snapped back to me instantly, hands sliding to my shoulders, scanning me for injury.
“You all right?”
His voice had changed.
Even rougher.
Protective instinct fully awake.
“I’m fine,” I said softly.
His hands lingered a beat too long.
Warm through Rose’s sweater.
His gaze dropped to my mouth again.
The city noise faded into background static.
Something slow and inevitable simmered between us.
A promise instead of a threat.
His thumb brushed absently against my collarbone where the sweater dipped slightly.
My breath hitched.
His eyes darkened.
Then he stepped back.
Control.
Again.
But I saw the strain in it.
And suddenly I knew.
This wasn’t a question of if.
Just when.
20
KANE
We found the right apartment on the third floor after climbing stairs that smelled faintly of lemon polish and old wood and decades of people living.
The building was old but well-maintained in that distinctly European way that made everything feel permanent and solid. Like it had been here for a hundred years and would be here for a hundred more. Cream-colored walls with ornate molding. Polished hardwood floors that creaked slightly underfoot in a comfortable, lived-in way. Brass fixtures on doors and railings that actually shined instead of gathering tarnish. The kind of place that cost real money in this part of Paris. The kind of place where people built actual lives instead of just passing through on temporary assignments.
Ella stopped in front of apartment 3C, hand raised to knock.
Then she just stood there, completely frozen.
I watched her hand tremble slightly, fingers curling and uncurling like she was trying to gather courage that kept slipping through her grasp like water.
Without thinking—without asking permission or considering whether it was smart—I reached out and took her hand in mine.
