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“No to the bath, we just did that after getting back from—” I cut myself off, realizing I’ve already said much more than I needed to. “And not just yet on Hibou.”

I debate my next move, although there’s really no question which way this needs to go. My suite and hers are familiar, probably more likely to offer enough security for Truie to let go a little if I actually close the fucking door behind me. But there are things I have to do in Christophe’s stead. There’s no way in hell I’m disturbing him now. Not a chance.

Instead, I turn toward Christophe’s office taking Truie with me. “Are the decanters filled? The humidor? If I have to call Eddie to come in this late…”

“Of course, sir. And I’ll prepare a light plate or two,” Garrick finishes my thought as if it’s common practice to call in our legal counsel in the small hours of the morning.

Some days it is, but not often. And when it does happen, shit’s bad.

Maneuvering behind the massive desk is a challenge with my hands occupied with precious cargo. When I have us as settled as possible in the boss’s chair, I reach for my phone and send the summons, burying my nose in the cloud of pale curls, breathing Truie in as I wait.

I don’t have to wait long. Mere moments after Garrick deposits a tray on the edge of the desk, Edmond Émile Yore III, drops into the chair across from me.

“What the actual fuck this time?” is how he chooses to greet me.

Is it brusque? Yes.

Is that well-earned? That would also be a solid yes.

Eddie accepts the offered whiskey and downs it in one go, then holds the glass out for Garrick to refill. This is how we do late night business, though there’s never been a woman my lap before.

I make a concerted effort to keep my body relaxed. “We’ve got a problem.”

“No shit,” he says peering at the tray full of food that was presented to him at this stupid time of night… or morning. “Looks like you have more than just the one.”

My sharp exhale disturbs the white-gold curls that obscure Truie’s face from view. “Wouldn’t drag you out of bed this late for anything less than a shitstorm.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Where’s the bossman? Getting his beauty sleep or sleeping with a beauty?”

I shift the chair so Truie’s facing away from him. Protecting her is paramount, not that Eddie’s a threat. “Not to be disturbed under any circumstances.” He’ll know soon enough that Christophe’s priorities have shifted as much as the family’s leadership has. “Alain’s dead, and a good number of his men too.”

He huffs a laugh and pops a brow, because to him, this isn’t really that big of a deal. “So you need Lapin to clean that shit up. This”—he circles his finger in the air between us—“can wait for business hours.” He stands to take his leave.

“Sit,” I bite out, surprised when he tilts his head and considers whether he will or will not. “Desmond showed up way too fast and far happier than he has any right to be when the man who signs his paycheck was rapidly reaching room temperature.”

I don’t miss the way his gaze drops to Truie, to the way my arms band protectively around her. “She have something to do with it?”

I don’t confirm or deny, just give him a small dip of my chin. This is all part of the dance we do exchanging information. Just a little but not too much. Never more than he needs to know.

Eddie snags a tart from the platter and pops it into his mouth, chewing far longer than the bite-sized treat requires while he no doubt ponders his next question. “Much as I hate it, I think I need to know what went down. Is this issue tied to the invitation-only event at The Honey Pot, or is it something”—his head tilts side to side, gaze drifting back to Truie—“more?”

“Yes.”

He shoves his hand through his hair, pulling the long strands back from his face. “Spill.”

Now it’s my turn to choose careful words. Because while Eddie’s asking for more information, he doesn’t want the full story. Nothing he doesn’t have to know. And I don’t know how much of this conversation Truie is taking in. The last thing I want is to send her deeper into her darkness.

“He seemed less concerned with the dead bodies than he should be, though I don’t doubt for a heartbeat that he’ll use them to get what he wants.”

“And what is it that he wants? Or do I not want to know?”

“He’s looking for a file. Alain mentioned something about a book,” I offer. My voice is purposely low, but the body pressed against me tenses almost indiscernibly, her shallow breaths stuttering before resuming.

“A book.” It’s not a question, so Eddie must know. “The book,” he adds.

“Yeah?” As much as I want to hit this with the kind of deep dive I usually reserve for special jobs, I hold back, because protecting Truie means more to me right now.

Impatience and frustration drip from the man. “And?”