“They came from two directions. That wasn’t random.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
She absorbed this. The jasmine in the window box above them scented the warm night air, incongruously domestic against the shape of what had just happened. “Someone sent them.”
“Someone who knew our route.”
“Which means they’ve been watching long enough to know our patterns.” Her voice remained steady, the archivist’s precision finding its footing even here. She looked at his forearm. “That’s what the mark does. It broadcasts. And apparently it broadcasts enough for someone to track us well enough to set an ambush.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been dealing with this.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.” He met her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
She was quiet for a moment. The street around them was ordinary August New Orleans—distant music, the smell of a restaurant two blocks over, a couple passing on the far sidewalk without glancing in their direction. Normal life, its surface unbroken.
“I need to tell you something,” he said. The words emerged before he could reconsider them.
She waited, her expression patient in the lamplight.
“Being connected to me—working with me, spending time with me—carries risks I can’t fully explain. The people watching us tonight are not the only dangers. There are forces at work in this city that see attachments as weaknesses to exploit.” He met her eyes, willing her to understand what he could not say directly. “If you wanted to step back from our arrangement,I would understand. I would not ask questions or demand explanations. I would simply accept your choice.”
“Is that what you want? For me to step back?”
The question cut through his distance.
“What I want has never been the relevant factor.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.” He exhaled, and something in his chest released with the truth. “It’s not. What I want is to keep seeing you. But what I want does not outweigh your safety. And I cannot guarantee your safety while this investigation continues.”
Delphine stepped closer, close enough that he could count the individual strands of hair the breeze had loosened from her ponytail.
“I’m a grown woman, Bastien. I have a career, an education, a life I built through my own choices. I don’t need you to guarantee my safety. I need you to be honest with me about what we’re facing and then trust me to make my own decisions.”
“Even if those decisions might get you hurt?”
“Even then.” She reached up and touched his face, her palm warm against his jaw. “I’d rather face real danger with full knowledge than live in comfortable ignorance while you carry everything alone.”
He should have moved away. Should have maintained the distance that might still protect her from the worst consequences of his attention. But her touch anchored him in ways he could not resist, and for one moment he allowed himself to feel the full weight of what he wanted.
“I’ll tell you more when we have dinner.” Not everything—there were things he genuinely could not share—but more than he’d told her. “Enough that you can make an informed choice about whether to continue.”
“I’ve already made my choice.”
“Make it again. After you know more.”
She studied him for another long moment, then nodded. “Dinner, then. And conversation.”
“Conversation.” He stepped back, breaking contact with her hand. “Go inside. Lock your door.”
“And you?”
