Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
When I embrace her, I feel how small she is, how delicate and dainty. Dwarfed in my embrace, she has to stand on the tips of her toes.
“I remember when I could hold you with one hand,” she says, laughing. “And now look at you. I’d bet you eat bricks for breakfast.” She pulls away, smiling sadly. “I’ll leave you now and I’m sorry to come unannounced.”
“Take a guard with you home.” I beckon for one of my men to come. “Drive her home.”
I’d drive her myself if I didn’t have Cosette in the other room.
On her way out, she looks over her shoulder at me, her gaze thoughtful. “Lyam, did you see what Montague said on the news?”
I grumble and shove my hands in my pockets. “I did.”
She stands in the doorway, tugging on her gloves one at a time. “Should I be concerned?”
I shake my head. “Of course not.” I repeat what Philippe said earlier. “We all know the politicians are more corrupt than we are.”
“Still, I worry,” she says thoughtfully.
“Don’t. You have nothing to worry about. Go, buy some clothes for the new baby. I’m sure Savannah’s already started the nursery.”
Maman rolls her eyes at me. “As if I haven’t started shopping yet. Good night, Lyam.”
I wait until my mother’s gone.
She has a tender heart. That means in front of her, I’m cognizant of who she is and how she feels. But when she’s gone, all bets are off.
She doesn’t know what I do, and she doesn’t have to.
I’m here for a reason. I have a code to follow. And Maman goes home safe tonight because of that.
Jacques looks at me. Waiting for me to dismiss him for the night.
“You can go,” I tell him. “Philippe won’t be back tonight.”
“Is there anything else you’ll need this evening, sir?”
I shake my head. “Nothing I can’t get myself, thanks.”
When he leaves, I remember the nip Philippe gave me. I pull it out of my pocket and twist the top off. I polish it off in two gulps, welcoming the warmth and burn of the whiskey. It’s smoother than I expect. I look at the label. Bastille. Good stuff.
I sit until the whole house is quiet.
I remember Montague’s promise to rid the city of the scum and shake my head. The irony is rich.
I pull out my phone and look at the screen. I half expect Cosette to be asleep, but when I see her, she’s standing at the window, peering out. She looks so small, so innocent and frail.
Her tray of food sits on the desk. Untouched.
I wonder why she hasn’t eaten.
Only the weak need to hurt those who are vulnerable.
The reason the vulnerable are safe to begin with is because someone is willing to hurt those that threaten their safety.
I stand and whip the mini bottle into the waste bin. It hits the side and shatters.
I shake my head.
Pacifism is the privilege of the protected.
Countries go to war because they have military.
Citizens are safe because we have the police.
And my family is safe because of me.
FOUR
Cosette
I stare out the barred window in the cell-like room. I’ve dimmed the lights so I can see out better and it’s harder to see me.
Not that he doesn’t have cameras trained on every possible exit.
If I move close enough to it and peer out, maybe squint my eyes a little, I don’t notice the bars.
Not that I care. He could put me alone in a prison in Siberia right now, and I’d welcome the solitude.
I don’t want to be anywhere near him.
I hate that guarded, fierce look in his eyes.
I hate that I’m in this predicament.
And he may not know this? But God, I hate Paris.
When I was younger, I didn’t really understand why I hated Paris so much.
When I was about six years old, I finally understood. I can still see my mother, sitting at our worn kitchen table, flipping through junk mail. A pamphlet of the Eiffel Tower bragged about discount flights abroad. She tore it into pieces and tossed it in the trash bin.
I hate Paris because she did.
“Why do you hate it so much?” I asked her.
She sucked on her cigarette, opening her mouth and releasing a ring of smoke before answering me. I imagined her words were embedded in the smoke.
“You’re old enough to know. Your father came from Paris.”
My father? I don’t know what I’d assumed up until then, but as a child with fanciful thoughts and a vivid imagination, I probably imagined she’d plucked me from a garden or something.
“My father?” I asked.
“Your father,” she said, her voice laced with contempt. “This is the first and last time we’ll ever talk of him.”
And that was that.
For her, anyway. For me, it was only the beginning.
The motion-activated lights blink on outside the window. Avril Gerard, her head held high, surrounded by lithe, lanky bodyguards on either side, walks down the long pathway that leads to her parked car.