Could it be Mademoiselle Black that’s come to see me?
Or someone else?
I take the elevator to the rooftop bar, where I’m to meet her.
I check my vest, I check my pockets. I know I have all my weapons if I need them.
I remember her soft voice, her head on my chest, the way I held her after I punished her and she cried.
The doors to the rooftop floor open.
I remember the way she laughs so easily, her witty sense of humor, the way she drinks her coffee, as if she relishes every drop.
My shoes click on the marble floor as I walk down the long hallway that takes me to the rooftop bar.
I remember my fingers in her hair, all tangled, when I give her a tug, the way her mouth parts and I capture her mouth with mine.
The doors to the bar slide open, and I enter, my guard at a safe distance behind me.
She’ll be at the bar. Wearing all black.
But the bar’s nearly vacant.
“Puis-je vous aider, Monsieur?"
I tell him I’m looking for someone in the rooftop bar.
God, the first night I held her, the first time we were together, we were on a rooftop. I remember every vivid detail of that night.
What she wore, her sweet, intoxicating scent, the way she responded to me when I pinned her wrists and made her come.
I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of my memory. I have to focus. I have to do it for my family. I have to do it for Bryn.
There are only four people at the bar. There’s only one wearing all black, clutching a silver bag.
I come to a halt. I stop and stare. It can’t be.
“Bryn?”
She turns to me, and it all hits me at once.
She’s wearing black. All black. She doesn’t look surprised to see me at all.
Bryn is Mademoiselle Black?
“What are you doing here?” I’m caught between the desire to run to her and kiss her, and to haul her over my knee for putting herself in so much fucking danger. “How did you get here?”
“I’ll tell you later, Mac,” she says quietly. “Have a seat, please.”
She wears a sad smile as she gestures at the barstool across from her.
“I’ve already ordered our drinks.”
I sit on the stool, eying her warily.
“What’s going on?” I cast a glance at the drinks beside me.
“You can trust me,” she says softly, and her voice wobbles a little. “Your drink is fine.” She jerks her chin at the bartender. “If you don’t trust me, have him pour another for you.”
