Page 49

I've just hitSendwhen my phone rings, and Erin's name flashes on the screen.

"Bianca is having nightmares again," she says without preamble. "Sophie thought you might want to know."

My heart squeezes. Our current houseguest is an eighteen-year-old girl recovering from witnessing her father being gunned down in front of her. Just a year younger than I am in age, but we're a thousand light years apart when it comes to what we've seen and know about the brokenness of our world.

"I'll call her tonight," I decide.

"Compris, madame."

Sylvain takes my hand after the call, and my heart flutters at what I see in his eyes.

"Thank you," he says simply.

"Thankyou." And I mean it, too. I would never have known this was what I was meant to do if not for him.

The limo pulls up to the marina, where Sylvain's sleek sailboat awaits. We board quickly, and my heart lightens up as the scent of saltwater envelops me. This may be wishful thinking, but I just feel in my heart that our first trip to St. Marianne is going to change all of our lives.

About an hour passes before we glide to a stop at the island's private dock, the engines falling silent as Sylvain secures the final rope and moves to stand beside me.

I look up at him with a smile. "We're here."

"Indeed."

"Aren't you excited to meet your cousin?"

"As excited as someone like me can be." The wind ruffles my husband's dark hair as he speaks. "I'm still not used to thinking I have...family."

"He's had a hard life like you."

"I know. It's what makes me trust him." Sylvain turns to me, his finger tracing my cheek. "And speaking of trust..."

Uh oh.

"What is this I hear from Calixte?"

The Prince of Killers has a big mouth.

"Is it true that you and Sarica have this plan to take down—"

I'm already moving, pretending his words are lost to the wind as I leap from the boat, my feet hitting the wooden dock with a satisfying thud. Spray from the sea sparkles in the air as I spin around, offering my most innocent smile.

"May I help you, sir?" I extend my hand with exaggerated formality, bowing slightly like a servant from another century.

Sylvain regards me with a raised eyebrow. "Is this your way of calling a truce?"

"Absolutely."

He reaches for my hand, the corners of his mouth curving upward—

I spin away, my laughter ringing across the water—followed by a magnificent splash.

(Heh.)

That should teach him.

Tit for tat, Monsieur le Dernier.

****