The penthouse was quiet for the first time in days. Marcus had swept the entire floor for bugs, then posted two men at the elevator and taken the rest to patrol the building. Marguerite had kissed us both on the cheeks, whispered something in ancient French that made Theo's eyes go glassy, and disappeared into the night. The priest was gone. The blood was cleaned. Only the faint scent of gunpowder lingered under the cedar candles someone had lit.
We were finally, impossibly, alone.
I stood at the bedroom window in the white silk dress (now wrinkled, hem stained with Theo's blood and our combined release). Dawn bled violet and rose across the skyline. The ruby on my finger caught the light and threw crimson shards across the walls.
Behind me, the mattress dipped.
Theo's voice was rough from painkillers and emotion. "Come here, wife."
The word wife hit me low in the belly, hot and liquid.
I turned.
