Page 126

“I trust that I know what he wants most.”

“Which is?”

“He wants to live.”

“Hmm. I don’t think that’s it, Cade.” I’m going out on a limb here; probably going to sound foolish, but I’m not about to hold back. “I think he wants to be you.”

His eyes search my face for so long that I start to squirm. Then he chuckles. “He is me, baby.”

Oh no. Not by a long shot. There was something more complex in the way Scar acted. He’s trapped in Cade’s shadow, playing a role that can never truly be his. Maybe that’s why he tried to warn me off. I’m suddenly too tired to figure out that whole dynamic right now.

My fingers drift to his side, slipping under his T-shirt to feel his skin. I pause. The bandage is gone; a strip of fancy dressing is in its place. “Did the doctor come?”

“About an hour ago.” His hand settles over mine.

I nod, tracing the edge of the dressing on the side, and then push up the sleeve over his right shoulder. “Can you . . . still work? You’re due in Moscow. I imagine it’ll be car chases and shootouts.”

“Nah. It’s never messy when it’s planned. And I’m in much better shape than I deserve.”

“Scar could go instead, couldn’t he?”

Something shifts in his expression—a flash of reluctance I can’t quite read, then his thumb traces my cheek. “I really can’t give afuck about Moscow right now. Getting you to safety is my priority. Everything else can wait.”

Guilt churns in my stomach at the thought of how much he’s giving up. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

His hand slides into my hair, those lethal fingers surprisingly gentle against my scalp. “And I shouldn’t have demanded that you trust me right off the bat. It’s hard-earned, and it takes time.”

But he managed it. Maybe it’s time I did the same.

This impossible, complicated, dangerous man has accepted that his time is short. I sigh as I feel that familiar dark pull between us.

“The expiry thing,” I whisper. “I . . . I get it.”

“You do?”

I nod. “I know what it’s like. To have . . . the possibility of a short life span hanging over your head.”

“What do you mean, Luciana?”

I let out another shaky breath. God, this is harder to say than I thought. “There’s a condition . . . a genetic condition,” I begin, struggling to find the words. “It runs in families, but the mutation was first discovered in my mother.”

His eyes stay locked on mine, silent but waiting.

“There’s a fifty percent chance I inherited it. If I did . . .” My voice breaks. “I’d need surgeries—lots of them—if I want a shot at a normal life.”

“What’s this condition called?”

I close my eyes. “LS. Lynch Syndrome.”

“Baby . . .” Cade murmurs, the look in his eyes making mine blur with tears as I struggle to finish.

“Papa let me go to Paris to escape for a while, take my mind off it. He promised not to pressure me to get tested.”

“That’s why your underage cousin is being trussed up for Antonov.”

I nod, tears slipping down my temples. “I might be a bad investment. Damaged goods. No Pakhan wants a wife who shouldn’t have children and might die young.” The words come out in a whisper, and my chest tightens as I admit my greatest fear aloud for the first time.

Cade’s expression shifts—something fierce and protective flickers in his eyes, and then he settles his weight over me again. His hands capture both of mine, pinning them beside my head as his fingers thread through mine.