Page 20 of At Your Mercy
“Yes,” I said, standing and sliding the book under my arm.
He followed me out of the bookstore and down the city block. He wasn’t at my side, but trailing just a step behind, like a shadow unsure of its place.
“Why don’t you just kill me?” he asked finally, his voice quieter than before, carrying a note that wasn’t taunting. “Neutralize the threat while you can?”
I glanced back at him, then kept walking. “Because there’s no need.”
That silenced him again.
When we reached the restaurant—a quiet, refined establishment with white tablecloths and the type of clientelethat required discretion—I held one of the doors open and inclined my head. “Your reward,” I told him.
His smile was late in arriving, small and unsettled, but he walked past me into the warmth of the place anyway. He stayed just behind me as I spoke with the hostess, requesting a secluded table.
The young woman smiled, showing picture-perfect white teeth, and led us through the low-lit dining room, past clinking glasses and murmured conversation. I felt Ro’s presence at my shoulder—close and restless, and a touch too quick on his feet, like an animal who hadn’t decided if he’d pounce or bolt.
As we reached our table, I let him slide into the booth first, watching the subtle flick of his eyes as he noted his surroundings and the nearest exit. I took a seat across from him, settling in as if this were nothing more than another business lunch. A server appeared almost instantly.
“Two filet mignons, medium rare,” I said without looking at Ro, handing over the menus we hadn’t even touched. “House salad on the side, and a bottle of the Malbec.”
The server nodded and vanished.
Across the table, Ro blinked at me, mouth opening as if to argue—then snapping shut, confusion flickering in his gorgeous pale eyes. Irritation followed closely behind, but it was muted and reined in.
“You just ordered for me,” he said flatly.
“Yes.” I unfolded my napkin and laid it across my lap, unhurried.
A beat passed. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted. What if I were vegan?”
“Are you vegan?” My tone was quiet, even, with just enough weight behind it to cut off whatever comeback he was about to attempt.
He leaned back in the booth, arms folded. “No.” He didn’t push it any further.
Interesting.
For a moment, we sat in silence, the hum of the restaurant filling the space between us. Then I asked conversationally, “Do you read much, Ro?”
His eyes narrowed. “What the fuck? Small talk?”
“Yes,” I answered simply. “Do you read?”
He gave a short, sharp laugh, incredulous. “You’re serious. Jesus. Do you normally wine and dine the people who try to kill you?”
I met his stare evenly, letting the corners of my mouth curve just slightly. “You haven’t actually tried yet.”
He stiffened, just a fraction, as if I’d tapped him on the shoulder when he thought he was invisible. His lips parted, but no words came out.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table, voice still low and controlled. “So until you do, we’re having lunch. And you’re going to sit there, eat what’s put in front of you, and make conversation like a civilized man.”
His pupils flared—anger, surprise, maybe something else he hadn’t expected to feel.
I smiled faintly. “Try to enjoy the meal.”
The wine arrived then, the server pouring it into crystal glasses. I thanked him politely and waited until he retreated before raising mine in a small, unhurried toast.
“To unexpected company,” I said.
Ro’s fingers tightened around his own glass. He didn’t clink it against mine, but he still drank from it.
