Page 9 of Cold Mercy

“You too, Jamie.”

Then she turns to me like I’ve been standing here the entire time just for her.

She stops a foot away, arms loose at her sides, chin tipped slightly up.

“Hi, Reed.” Her voice is stripped of any emotion, as if she practiced the greeting in front of a mirror to make sure it gave nothing away. “Judging by your face, they’ve already given you the full Orphan Sophia backstory, and now you’re trying to figure out what’s appropriate to say and what isn’t.”

I reach out my hand because she’s clearly daring me not to.

“Thomas,” I correct, applying the charm thick enough to choke on. “But somehow you already know my name. Good to meet you.”

She keeps hold of my hand longer than necessary, smiling faintly, eyes locked on mine the entire time. Her grip is cool and firm, lacking the hesitation of someone meeting a stranger. I notice her eyes properly.

Deeply green. Quiet in a way that doesn’t match the rest of her at all. It is the first variable tonight that doesn't fit my profile, and that discrepancy irritates me more than her attitude.

Then she steps back.

“I’m getting drinks,” she says. “When I’m back, we’ll talk wedding stuff.”

James shoots me a look that translates clearly as ‘go with her.’ Good for me. Proximity yields intel, and I need to know if that stillness is real or just another layer of the mask.

At the bar, she orders a double ‘the usual,’ and the bartender pours her a Glenfiddich. I sit down on the free hooker to her right.

“Same for me then,” I tell the bartender.

She turns her head just enough to look at me.

“Listen, Reed. I don’t know what your angle is, and I don’t need to.” Her voice stays level, controlled. “You appear out of nowhere, and suddenly you’re James’s best man. I don’t buy coincidence, and I definitely don’t buy you.”

Paranoid, but smart. I lean back against the counter, forcing my posture to remain relaxed, letting a lazy smile touch my lips. I need to choose my approach carefully. Aggression will make her shut down, but deference will bore her. Women like Sophia Moreau are used to being feared or worshipped…

“Ouch, that hurts. I was hoping for a warmer welcome.” So I need to be the one thing she doesn't expect.

She doesn’t rise to it.

“I can guess what Elizabeth asked you to do,” she continues, lifting her glass. “Smile, keep an eye on me. Babysit.”

“Babysit?” I laugh softly, letting the word hang between us, mocking her arrogance. “You make it sound like a punishment.”

Her gaze flicks over me, sharp and dismissive.

“For you, maybe. For me, it’s insulting.” She takes a sip. “So here’s the deal. I want nothing to do with you. You can be a saint, a paperboy, or whatever shit you’re running, but don’t come near me.”

She pauses just long enough for it to land.

“And if you screw up their wedding in any way,” she adds, eyes steady, “you’ll regret it. You look like the fucking problem already.”

I almost smile. Not because she’s wrong, I just made a career out of unraveling people like that.

I lean in closer, invading her personal space to unsettle her.

“Is that a threat?” I ask, smiling just enough to be annoying.

“Try me,” she says calmly. “See how it goes.”

Interesting. Most women say things like that to be provocative, but Moreau says it like she has a sniper team on the roof and the laser is already on my chest.

It makes me want to arrest her almost as much as it makes me want to see what else that mouth can do.