Understanding.
“When you said ‘two worlds,’” I said quietly, “you meant that.”
He glanced at me then. Really looked at me.
“Yes.”
The car turned onto a quieter street.
The city shifted.
Less café chatter. More privacy.
Stone façades with tall iron gates.
The Sanctuary.
I hadn’t seen it yet—not properly—but I’d heard enough in fragments. Enough to know it wasn’t a hotel.
It was a haven.
Invitation-only.
The sedan slowed in front of a home that looked unassuming from the outside.
Ellsworth exited first. Opened my door.
I stepped out.
The air felt different here. Quieter.
Kane stepped out beside me.
His hand found the small of my back automatically.
We entered through a narrow doorway that led to a long, high-ceilinged foyer. Antique mirrors. Clean lines.
Not flashy or ostentatious. But powerful.
This, obviously, wasn’t a place someone stumbled into.
Ellsworth moved ahead of us.
“This way, Miss Rousseau.”
Miss Rousseau.
The name felt strange here. Like I was someone else.
The hallway opened into a wide salon with tall windows overlooking a private courtyard.
And he was there.
Connor Ward.
I knew it instantly. He looked like he and Kane had been cut from the same cloth.
Tall.
