Page 38 of Blind Prophet

“Who makes your coffee in the morning?”

“I make my own.”

I slow and tilt my head, remembering the pods from earlier.

“Someone comes along and cleans after me. But yes, I make my coffee, just like before.”

“I made the coffee.”

“I meant before you.”

I slide the teapot onto the burner and lift the glass jar off the shelf so I can better rummage through the tea selection.

Dorian’s gaze locks on me, wrapping around me as if he’s searching for a fissure to infiltrate. The warm tendrils unnerve me.

Knock. Knock.

“Sounds like someone’s at the door. Will the butler get it?”

He narrows his eyes, but his lips curve into an amused smirk. It’s one of my favorite looks of his, and given he’s gone to answer the door, I don’t bite back my smile.

“Geoffrey.” Dorian’s tone is one he uses when he’s greeting someone he doesn’t like.

I snag a green packet of mint tea while trying to recall a Geoffrey. When we were married, I met dozens of colleagues. Most of whom, if I’m honest, Dorian didn’t like.

Nick Ivanov had been one of the few he genuinely held as a friend, and I always presumed that was because they met during college. When we were together, his only close friends were those who knew him as a child or those who met him abroad and saw him as a regular guy.

“Here’s an NDA for your guest to sign.”

“She won’t need that.”

“Don’t be dimwitted?—”

“She’s already signed one.”

Dorian’s right, of course. I signed a lengthy NDA on the day he brought me home to meet his father. An all-encompassing, lengthy agreement that I’m ashamed to admit I never read.

“Very well, then. There’s a pilot on standby, if you need him.”

I cock my head, listening. Geoffrey. The name is familiar. Head of security? Is he here because they watched me taking photographs?

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Dorian—”Not Mr. Moore.

“I’ll fly her back.”

“As you wish.”

The door closes, and Dorian’s footsteps grow louder until he appears in the doorway.

“Who was that?” I ask, maintaining a casual posture, though my pulse quickens as I catalog his microexpressions. The slight tension in his jaw. The weight shift to his back foot. Classic indicators of suspicion I clocked countless times in surveillance footage when working for the CIA.

“Who are you working for these days?” he counters.

My mind races through my cover story’s contingencies, the nested layers of truth and fiction we constructed. At the agency, I built profiles of people like Dorian—brilliant, paranoid, three steps ahead. Now the stakes feel exponentially higher.

I drop the tea packets into the top of the teapot, close the lid, and press the boil button. If I tell him, he’ll search the house for listening devices after I’m gone.

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