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“I’ll get there when I get there.” He sounds bored. Like international crime is just another calendar entry.

“So what’s it going to be? Jacques Devereaux . . .” His eyes lock onto mine. “ . . . or me?”

The air thickens as the question hangs between us. Here it is—the moment to make the smart choice.

Every self-preservation instinct I possess is setting off air raid sirens.

Run. Go to Paris. Choose safety.

But I can’t look away from him. From the way he sprawls in that chair like it’s a throne, his fingers casually stroking Saint’s head, although there’s nothing casual about the rest of him. He radiates some kind of magnetic force field that pulls at me.

Compels me.

I bet it’s the same force that makes moths fly into flames, knowing they’ll burn, yet unable to resist the light.

I chew my lip, weighing sanity against desire.

Screw it.

I drop the airs. He’s seen me with my guard down enough to last a lifetime—what’s one more?

“Paris would be the sensible choice,” I whisper, not bothering to hide behind sass or seduction. “But I want to come with you.”

Something ignites in his eyes, hot as lava and twice as dangerous. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Alright.” His gravelly voice scrapes against something raw and hungry inside me. “Your father’s already been told you won’t be coming home until he gets his priorities straight about your safety.”

I nod, trying not to think of how that conversation went down.

Cade straightens. “Now, you have my word: as long as Saint and I are breathing, no one will hurt you.”

Something warm blooms in my chest. For someone who acts so cold, he sure is serious about protecting me.

“You must promise me something in return, princess.”

“What?”

“Don’t get me hurt.”

What the hell?I blink, thrown off balance.

I can’t even knee the man in the groin. How could I hurt him? What’s even more confusing is his tone. He’s talking about himself like he’s an object, a weapon he doesn’t want damaged.

“How am I supposed to not get you hurt?”

“Don’t lie to me. You can flirt with me all you want, princess, but if you can’t trust me, that’s the door.”

My heart falters. He’s asking—demanding the one thing I’ve guarded like a fortress.

Truth.

Saint turns his massive head to look at me, his eyes glinting with a strange, knowing intelligence. Then he drops his head back on his paw and looks almost . . . imploring.

Is that even possible?

“Fine, I won’t get a scratch on you,” I say with an eye roll, but his words echo like warning bells.

Cade simply grunts, then unfolds from the chair with lethal grace. “I’m taking Saint for a walk, then I’ll bring the truck around. We leave in thirty minutes.”