Page 108 of Blind Prophet

I say it softly, as much in hopes to keep the question between us and not those listening in, as to ensure the volume of my voice doesn’t hurt.

His fingers wrap around my wrist, and he brings my palms to his lips. His dark eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head slightly. “Shouldn’t happen again for a few days.”

I hate that he suffers this way. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

The team can wait. It’s been a long day, and we can regroup in the morning.

If China is behind recent events, we’re looking at a new kind of warfare—one where satellite infrastructure and global communications are the battlefield. With Zenith’s reach, it’s likely he’ll have clients at odds which each other, opposing countries, which makes his position even more precarious. The intelligence community will need him, but they’d never fully trust him.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and search through lidded food compartments, settling on smoked salmon and cold sesame noodles, set it out on one plate, and grab two forks. I pour each of us a glass of filtered water. If I weren’t worried about a recurring migraine, I might get him wine, but instead, I’m going to ensure he’s hydrated.

There’s warmth in his eyes, but also maybe amusement.

“Do you want me to split it on two plates?” I suppose it is presumptive of me to assume we’d share.

“No, not at all.” He moves the barstool near him, patting it for me to take a seat. “I’ve missed this. You taking care of me.”

“Please.” I roll my eyes and nudge him to eat. “You’ve got a full staff taking care of you.”

“Not like you. It never feels the same. They’re doing their jobs. You’re doing it because you care. In spite of everything, you care about me.” He sips his water and sets it down. “I think I could be penniless and you’d still care.”

“That’s true,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on.

He snorts. “You liked me more when I was a penniless grad student.”

“Please. You were never penniless.”

“You thought I was.”

I narrow my eyes. He has no concept of penniless.

He becomes solemn, and his focus falls to the plate, but I recognize that faraway look. He’s gone somewhere, lost in thought. I let him eat, knowing that regardless of what he says, if he doesn’t take care of his body, he’ll pay the price in pain. If not today, soon.

When there’s not much left on the plate, he sets his fork down.

“The rest is yours.”

“I’m done,” I say.

“No.” His lips are set in a firm line. “Eat more.”

I’m ready to insist he eats more, when he snaps his fingers, hops off the stool, and strides to the pantry, coming out with a gold foil wrapper and my favorite chocolate.

“I know you’ll eat this.”

He’s right. I will.

As I take a piece, he lifts his fork to finish off the noodles. I knew he’d eat more.

“Do you remember that time Nick boiled lobster?”

“Stunk up the whole flat,” Dorian says with a smile.

“I haven’t eaten lobster since,” I admit.

Nick, Dorian, and I spent a lot of time together that spring. He functioned as my biggest advocate, and, as Dorian tells it, it was Nick who pushed Dorian out the door when I’d been sick back home in Boston. Nick told him to take care of me, which is why he showed up at my door with tissues and cold medicine.

“How is Nick doing these days?”

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