Page 76 of Eyes in the Shadows

He claps his palms together, wiping them against each other and scattering some of what transferred to his skin. “Let’s get back into the kitchen, hmm? Perhaps a little washing up?”

“No, I’m… uh, making a pie crust.”

Dimitri snorts at that and Wesley glances over his shoulder with an expression meant to silence. Dimitri raises his eyebrows and disappears into the powder room by the entrance. I hear the water come on and assume he’s cleaning up the blood.

“Well let’s get you a drink then. Fancy some bubbles?”

When I’d go back to the counter and pick my dough back up, he ushers me towards the table. Moving fluidly through the kitchen, he grabs two champagne flutes that are so strangely shaped I know they cost a fortune. There’s a small drink refrigerator built into the cabinetry under the island and he pulls out a bottle that’s been chilling on its side.

“So… it went well?” I broach. “Seems like maybe it went well. You guys were in a good mood.”

“It did.”

“And Mac wasn’t with you? He was… somewhere else, I suppose.”

“Ah, you didn’t know. Your reaction makes sense.” He pops the top as he sits down on the opposite side of the corner next to me. “Yes, we had different parts to play, so he was at another location.”

His expression is pure focus as he expertly tilts the glass and fills it slowly enough that he doesn’t even have to wait for the bubbles to subside. I feel the tension easing out of my shoulders at his unbothered demeanor—he’s so calm. He clearly thinks there’s nothing to worry about.

“It was quite the reaction, Eleanor.”

I bite my lip. “I’ve been a bit”—out of my damnmind—“worried.”

He regards me over the top of his champagne flute. “Didn’t you speak with him beforehand about what was going to happen tonight?”

I wince at his gently reproving tone, and accept the flute. After a quick sip that tickles my nose and prickles my tongue, I shake my head. “Not really. But it’s my fault. Mac says he’d tell me anything I ask, I just… I didn’t ask.”

“You don’t want to know,” he guesses.

“I didn’t,” it’s part agreement, part correction. Because I’m kicking myself for it now.

My second sip is more of a gulp, but the bubbles start to go to my head and warmth spreads across my face, starting from my nose.

“That was not the fearful look of a woman who didn’t ask for details because she doesn’t care.”

“It’s not why I didn’t ask,” I say softly. “I do care.”

“I know,” he says, just as softly.

There’s a world of understanding in his look and I get the sense that he really does know. He knows that I don’t just mean that I care about the mission, or about Mac. He knows how torn I am, how much my heart aches. Maybe he even knows how scared I am about what’s going to happen next.

“I don’t know what to do.” Normally, I’d call Mel. It’s what sisters are for. Sure, sometimes they talk at you for an hour, but they’re always there when you need someone to listen to you, too.

“Do you want some advice?” he asks, spinning the flute from the base of the stem.

For some reason, that makes me smile—asking for consent before trying to help. “Sure.”

“Someone wise once said, ‘It won’t work if you don’t decide to make it work; you have to engineer it.’”

I nod, because it’s good advice and I can’t fault its truth, then I frown. “Who said that?”

“Someone wise. Don’t worry about it. My point is, you can’t do this by halves. You are either part of our world or you’re out of it. And trust me, the easier way is to just get out. But…” he pauses, takes another sip, and smiles at me, “if you’re up for the challenge, you may find that the benefits outweigh the drawbacks.”

I finish my glass—damn, these flutes are small—and he reaches over to refill it for me. “That’s assuming he even wants me to be part of this world.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like that’s the first conversation you need to have with him, then.”

“Maybe.” I take another sip and reach for the bottle to read the label. I don’t recognize it, and it’s not French, like I was expecting. “This is really good.”

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