1
SOPHIA
Paris smells like rain on old stone and warm butter from the bakery two streets over.
I hate every breath of it.
It’s been twenty-four days since the mountain house cracked open and spilled blood across the floor like cheap paint.
Five hundred and seventy-six hours since Reth stood in the wreckage, karambit dripping, eyes already sliding into that flat, lethal calm, and told me to go like the word cost him pieces he’d never get back.
Thousands of minutes since my life changed irrevocably.
While Ian steered me onto a private jet—untraceable, paid for in shadows and offshore accounts I don’t want to know about—I begged him to at least try to contact Reth. To make sure he’s okay. But Ian made it clear that he couldn’t, under any circumstances, fuck with the plan.
The plan is simple, brutal, and non-negotiable.
Get me out of the country. Keep me protected twenty-four-seven. And absolute radio silence. No calls. No messages. No contact whatsoever. We’re supposed to live like Reth doesn’t exist.
That last part is the one slowly carving me open, because my memories don’t give a damn about the plan. My heart doesn’t care about logistics or safety protocols. Every time I close my eyes, he’s there—blood on his scar, voice low against my skin, whispering my name like it’s the only thing still anchoring him to this world.
The plan also means Ian is completely iced out. No emails. No updates. No whispers from Andrei or anyone else on Reth’s team. His only job—his entire world right now—is me.
I hate it.
Not because I mind being babysat by a sarcastic, lethal shadow with great hair. I hate it because I can see what it’s costing him. Ian has been Reth’s brother in every way that matters for years. And now he’s cut off from the only family he’s known, reduced to playing glorified bodyguard in a city that isn’t home, all while the man he would bleed for is somewhere out there, alone.
We are both grieving the same ghost.
I’m barefoot in the kitchen staring at a stainless-steel espresso machine that looks like it could launch rockets. The apartment is warm, spacious, expensive in that quiet, intentional way, thick walls, tall windows, silence that money buys. Ian didn’t go into specifics, just said that Reth made sure I wouldn’t want for anything material.
The cruelty of it sits heavy in my chest. I’d trade every perfect inch for one night on a bare mattress with his weight pinning me down and his hands on my skin.
I wrap my arms around my middle and listen to the rain tap against the glass. Somewhere out there is the Eiffel Tower I’ve dreamed about since I was little. The one Reth painted on a wall next to Takada Castle, a broken version of it tattooed on his chest.
We’ve been here for weeks, and I can’t get myself to leave the apartment because what’s the point of Paris if the only man I want to see it with isn’t here.
If anyone had told me four months ago that I’d be in Paris refusing to go outside because I’m pining over my stalker, I’d have laughed in their faces. Maybe slap them.
The bedroom door opens behind me. Ian’s footsteps are soft but never sneaky anymore. He’s learned the exact rhythm that doesn’t make me flinch.
“Coffee?” His voice carries that dry, lazy edge he uses like armor. “Or are we pretending we’re still on mountain time and surviving on spite and tap water?”
I don’t turn around, but the corner of my mouth twitches. “Spite’s free. Coffee costs whatever black-market price Reth’s paying for this place.”
He snorts, moving past me to the machine. “Private jet, fake names, untraceable accounts—man’s thorough even when he’s bleeding out. Least he could do is stock decent beans.”
The espresso machine hisses to life. I watch his back—broad, relaxed in a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still messyfrom sleep. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I like that he’s here. That I’m not alone with the quiet that wants to eat me alive. He just exists in the same space with that easy, sarcastic rhythm of his, like a steady pulse keeping the worst of the silence from swallowing me whole.
He slides a cup toward me. Black. No sugar. No cinnamon.
I take it, fingers brushing his for half a second. “Thanks. For… all of it. The plane. This place. Not leaving me alone with my own head.”
Ian shrugs one shoulder, leaning back against the opposite counter with his own mug. “Don’t thank me. Thank the control-freak who wired half his offshore accounts into motion before the first window even broke. I’m just the witty sidekick with a lower body count.” He takes a sip, eyes narrowing at me over the rim. “Speaking of which—Crazy. You look like shit. And not the cute, brooding kind of shit. The ‘I haven’t seen daylight in weeks and my hair is staging a coup’ kind.”
I snort softly into my coffee. “Charming.”
“I try.” He sets his mug down, crosses his arms, and gives me the full once-over—the one that says he’s done being patient. “Right. New plan. You’re getting dressed. We’re going out.”
