Page 142 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Chapter 44

Arthur

“This is perfect.” Gwen covered her mouth while she chewed a morsel of toast. She’d done the same with the eggs. Small bites, on the left, away from the split in her cheek. She almost managed to hide the wince. The bruise along her jaw had gone purple-black on the drive home, and the kitchen lights didn’t do it any favors.

“More jam?” Lance slid the jar across the breakfast table before she’d answered, his own plate practically licked clean.

“I’m fine.” She lowered the hand to smile at him. “Thank you.”

I’d kept it simple. Eggs, toast, butter, jam, and chamomile tea. She’d told me I showed my emotions through food, so what did this meal say about me? It said this was all I had to give. I couldn’t close the cut on her cheek or pull the ache out of her face. But I could keep her plate warm while she worked through one tiny bite at a time.

She squeezed her eyes shut through the last of the toast, and my chest tightened again. Getting her free was supposed to resolve that. An hour and a half ago, I’d stood in a basement and offered a room full of strangers five million dollars without blinking. And I was feeding the three of us with five dollars’ worth of food.

“Keep eating,” Lance said, “or he’ll start baking. He gets worse when he’s worried.”

She laughed, caught her cheek in her palm, and kept laughing anyway.

“Do you want more?” I asked him.

He shook his head, and I carried my plate and his to the sink to rinse them off.

When I looked back, Lance widened his eyes at me and tipped his chin at her plate. ‘She’s eating,’ that look said. ‘Breathe.’

So I put the kettle on for more tea.

While I waited for the kettle, the list I couldn’t shut up ran through my head. The after-action review Lance and I had to finish before the details went soft. The update for our team, so everyone knew we’d gotten out safely. A call to Merlin, who was probably pacing and staring daggers at his phone—but would claim he was sleeping. The sword case locked in the safe room under our feet, FBI property with a forged pedigree waiting to bury it. Tomorrow’s flight home.

And under all of it, the item I couldn’t handle.

‘Leave Ethan to me,’ my father had said on the phone. I’d been too panicked over Gwen to wonder what he meant. He’d be fired, of course. Maybe sued for breach of contract, or he’d get a stern talking-to.

But when One said they had a second job to do once we were safe, I knew what he meant. Twenty years inside Gerald Penn’s operation, reporting to the Custodians the whole time—Ethan Fowley wasn’t getting away with what he’d done. He wouldn’t use his knowledge of my father or anyone under his control as leverage.

It was either a kill order or a dark room off every map, for the rest of whatever life Ethan had left. My father would call the second one mercy, but he’d sleep fine either way.

What would I have chosen if I were in his shoes? A third option had to exist, but every one I came up with left the Custodians with too many secrets about my family. About my father. About his company.

“If I don’t lie down soon, I’m going to fall over.” Gwen pushed her plate aside, leaving far too much uneaten. “I need some sleep.”

I wanted anything but sleep. I wanted her wrapped around me, breathing against my neck, proof I could hold on to. But she needed her rest, so I made myself nod and return to the table for her plate. “Sweet dreams.”

She stood, accepted the gentle hug Lance gave her, and stared at me for a beat before leaving.

I braced my hands on the edge of the sink. We’d gotten her back, and the world was as it should be. I blew out a long breath and turned the tap back on. “We should do our AAR.”

“The fuck?” Lance joined me at the sink and turned off the tap. “Why are you still here?”

“She needs sleep.”

“You’re hopeless.” He pinched the bridge of his nose theatrically and sighed. “That line was for my benefit, because she thinks I’m clueless about what’s going on here. She meant she wants time with you. Go. I’ll call Merlin, and I’ve got the kitchen.”

I was on the stairs before I’d finished deciding to move. My injuries—the ribs, the cut across my arm, the bruises on my face, the bad knee—realized it was best not to remind me they existed.

Upstairs, I knocked on the guest room door at the end of the hall. No answer. The door was open a crack, so I nudged it open. A light thud came from behind the en suite door. The shower enclosure’s door.

I closed her room’s door behind me and crossed the room to the sound of running water. I knocked. “Gwen? Do you need anything?”

She eased the door open, a tired smile on her face. She was in a T-shirt and her panties, her dirty, rumpled pants and sweater on the floor. “I was hoping you’d come up.”