She doesn't notice me at all. Doesn't even glance in my general direction. She's somewhere else entirely, lost in her own head, moving on autopilot through a house that's clearly been draining her for years.
What has he done to you, Red?
There is nothing behind her eyes. No light. No fight.
But as she passes, something flickers across her face. A crease between her brows. Like her body recognized something her mind couldn't name.
My scent, maybe.
I turn my back to her and keep walking, every step heavier than the last. The distance grows between us, and it takes everything I have not to turn around. Not to blow weeks of planning because I can't stand watching her walk away from me again.
When I'm far enough, I glance back.
She's moving faster now, arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to hold her pieces together.
If she chose this, why does she look like she's dying from the inside out?
Maybe it was never a choice.
EIGHTEEN
TRISTAN
Calder's office is exactly what I expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking grounds he clearly doesn't give a shit about. A shiny mahogany desk, leather chairs that look like they've never been sat in, and a fully stocked minibar. There's also a pool table in the other corner of the room.
The type of office that reeks of power.
I know it all too well. That's the kind of setup I have in New York.
This place isn't a house. It's a mansion perched on a massive cliffside, surrounded by endless green.
A beautiful cage, inside and out.
He's sitting behind the desk when Marchand shows me in, reading something on his tablet and in no hurry to look up. He'd rather I stand here while he finishes whatever the fuck he's pretending to read.
It's a test. I guarantee he's watching me through the cameras in this room.
I keep my eyes forward but try to pick out anything I can from my peripheral vision. Cameras in each corner. A metal filing system by his desk, likely locked.
The wedding ring on his finger.
My jaw aches from how hard I'm clenching my teeth.
He's smaller than I expected. Pale skin. Thinning hair. Wearing a gray sweater and dark slacks. He doesn't care what he looks like because people give him whatever he wants.
I'm going to enjoy killing this asshole. Either in his bed or in this room. Maybe I'll be kind and let him choose.
After about five minutes, he sets the tablet down and gestures to the chair across from him.
"Sit."
No greeting. No apology. His time is the only one with any value here, not mine.
I keep my posture relaxed but professional as I take a seat. Calder leans back, studying me with a certain disinterested look on his face.
"Henri Trottier," he says, a terrible French accent rolling off his tongue. "Former Légion étrangère. Specialized in close protection and tactical operations. You came highly recommended."
"Oui, monsieur," I reply.
