Page 112 of The Vigilante's Lover
I think of my mother in that picture, a photo that is probably lost to me now, blown to bits.
But I keep it in my heart, her hair blowing, a reckless look in her eye. I remember, when I was small, her picking me up and telling me never to let anyone make me feel afraid. “Just because someone tries to hand you fear, doesn’t mean you have to take it,” she said.
I won’t be afraid. And I will figure out what to do to stay with Jax, to be worthy of the work that he does. I just don’t know where to start.
But then it doesn’t matter, because Jax is up and coming toward me, a dark look in his eyes.
5: Jax
Even though this is a new hotel for me, I can still hear the subtle click of the door in the room next to us. Very few sounds escape me, even without enhanced hearing devices. One of the earliest Vigilante trainings centers around listening to the normal background noise of a room, and immediately detecting anything that changes.
I’m not alarmed, however. The person who has arrived is here at my request.
Mia hasn’t been exposed to many things, so what she’s doing next might be new to her. But I take her hand and pull her to standing.
It isn’t wise to start anything here, not with someone in the next room, but I do want her relaxed. I pull her up against me and clasp her head, my fingers running through her hair.
She sighs and rests on my chest. When her breathing has slowed and she seems past the anxiety of our conversation, I lead her out of the dining area and into the bedroom next door.
A young man is there, setting up a massage table.
Mia promptly halts. “Who is this?”
The man extends his hand. “I’m Peter. I will be administering your massage.”
Mia looks up at me, eyebrows raised.
“Thought you could use it,” I say, although I’m not thrilled the masseur is a man. In fact, picturing his hands on her body is starting to make me doubt this decision entirely.
He holds up a fluffy white robe. “You ready?” he asks Mia.
She takes it from him uncertainly. “Okay.” She walks toward the bathroom to change.
I stare down this Peter guy.
“Viscount,” he says, with a half-assed bow.
I settle in an armchair in the corner. The Peter person checks the bars beneath the table and arranges his tubes and bottles of oils.
Mia emerges from the bathroom in the robe. She looks small and timid in the piles of white terry cloth.
Peter pats the table. She’s not terribly tall, so when she turns, she has to hop a little to sit on it. The robe parts to reveal her slender legs. Peter notices.
Yes, this might have been a bad idea all around.
“Just untie the front and lie down on your belly,” Peter says. He unfolds a towel.
Mia does what he says, shooting me an uncertain glance.
Peter spreads the towel across her, then expertly peels the robe down so that only her back is exposed. Still, I can see the side of a compressed breast.
“Chin here,” Peter says, shifting her position.
The movement causes her to lift a little, and I see more of her. I decide to escape for a moment to avail myself of the bar. We might be in Tennessee, but it’s five o’clock in New York. Close enough.
Rather than mix my own, I head out into the shared space of the executive floor. The bartender spots me and smiles. He’s an older gentleman, as they often are in these positions.
“What can I get you, Viscount Argetti, sir?” he asks.
