Page 47 of My Masked Shadow
Hotel Artemis sits three blocks from Central Park, one of those glass-and-marble monuments to excessive wealth where the staff are too well-trained to look impressed by anyone. The rooftop restaurant is all floor-to-ceiling windows and moody lighting, the kind of place you bring someone you want to fuck and impress in equal measure. I greased the manager’s palm this morning to have a corner table ready for me tonight.
The hostess recognizes me. They always do.
“Good evening, Mr. Kane. Ms. Neal. Your table is ready,” she says with a practiced smile.
They sit us in the corner, and I take the chair that lets me have my back to the wall and a clear view of the doors and most of the room. Old habits, never dying and all that.
Candlelight flickers on the linen tablecloth, and city lights glitter beyond the glass like a thousand distant fires. But the most beautiful thing is the woman sitting across from me.
She orders scallops. I order a steak. The waiter pours us wine that probably costs more than the monthly rent in some states. None of it holds my attention like the way Barbara licks a stray drop of sauce from her thumb.
“So, this is nice,” she says, glancing around once the waiter retreats. “Fancy.”
“I have layers, little bee,” I say with a grin. “I’m not all hacking and kidnapping you into horror sims and ruining your underwear supply.”
Her eyes flash. “You owe me at least three new pairs, by the way.”
I count on my fingers. “Warehouse, your place, rehearsal dinner coatroom…”
Her foot kicks mine under the table. “Shut up.”
I chuckle. “You started it.”
She takes a sip of wine like she needs the fortification. “I’m still mad at you, you know.”
“For which part?” I ask lightly. “The lying aboutSeb? Or for making you walk funny today?”
“You sound way too proud of yourself, Ethan,” she mutters.
“I’m proud of the part where you screamed my name,” I say. “Multiple times.”
Her hand spasms on the stem of her glass. Her throat works as she swallows. “You’re vulgar.”
“And you’re blushing,” I shoot back. “Again.”
She glares at me, but there’s heat behind it now. “You’re the worst.”
“You say that,” I murmur, leaning in just enough that she has to meet my eyes, “and yet you’re here. Dressed like my dreams grew legs and walked into my life.”
“So dramatic,” she mutters. But her foot doesn’t move away from where it’s pressed to my ankle.
We slip into that strange new comfort we’ve built in a terrifyingly short time. Bickering, teasing, barbed little comments threaded with something softer, warmer. She talks about work, about the kids, about true crime podcasts. I talk about nothing real—definitely not the contract work, or Zhao, or blood—just projects, pranks I pulled on the guys when we were deployed, stupid shit Ethan Sebastian Kane has done for kicks.
Between bites, my hand finds her knee under the table. Just resting there. Not pushing. Not yet. Her muscles tense at the first touch, then relax. She doesn’t move my hand away.
“So,” she says eventually, stabbing her scallop in a way that should probably scare me. “Is this what you do? Take women to stupidly fancy restaurants and charm them into forgiving your felonies?”
“No,” I say truthfully. “You’re the first one I’ve brought here.”
Her brows pull together, like she wants to believe me but isn’t sure she should. “You expect me to swallow that?”
“You’ve swallowed worse,” I say before my brain can stop my mouth.
Her fork clatters against the plate. “Ethan!”
I laugh, delighted, and squeeze her knee. “You walked right into that, little bee.”
She glares. It’s not very effective when she’s biting back a smile. “You’re impossible.”
