Page 52 of Even Robots Die (Even Ever After #3)

Florentine

I thought I was going to need to borrow some clothes from whoever happened to be my size around here—which in itself would be a feat.

Shapeshifters don’t really come in all shapes.

Maybe before their first shift, but after?

No, they come in two sizes: lean and slightly to really muscled or thick and very muscled.

From what I understand, it comes with the way shifting acts on their body.

A shift rearranges all their bones and muscles or something like that and from what I heard, shifting is worse than a heavy workout—as if it was leg day, abs day, chest day and whatever else one can think about, all at the same time.

Which is why I’m surprised when Brice leaves the room and comes back with a whole outfit in my exact size.

There shouldn’t be something for my large curves just lying around like that.

After dropping the clothes on the bed for me, Brice doesn’t say anything else. He leaves the room and closes the door after him, but I can still hear him right outside the door .

I know he’s doing that on purpose to let me know he’s waiting for me. I’ve seen him appear out of thin air, so I know he could be silent if he really wanted to.

Carefully, I get down from the bed, discard the hospital gown, and jump in the shower. There is still blood crusted on the side of the round and white scars stark on my skin like a painful reminder of where I got shot earlier today.

When I’m done and dried, I slip the panties, bra, large pants, and shirt on without waiting for another second. They fit perfectly. It’s odd, but I don’t question it further.

I need to be on my way already.

I find my sneakers in the wardrobe and backtrack to the bed to get the socks I didn’t see the first time.

That’s when my stomach grumbles again.

“If you don’t eat, we’re not going,” I hear Brice say from the other side of the door.

Damn those bat ears.

Reluctantly, I grab the chocolate cup and the pain au chocolat and step out of the room.

Brice turns to me and I narrow my eyes at him as I forcefully bite the pastry to show him that I’ve eaten something.

He holds my eyes as I gulp down what is probably half of the contents of the cup, but doesn’t move until I’ve eaten half of the delicious pastry—it truly would have been a shame to let it go to waste.

That seems to be enough to satisfy him and he turns his back to me and walks down the corridor, expecting me to follow after him.

We walk down the stairs and the rows of pews for Sunday’s mass—it truly astonishes me that the dragon of Notre Dame respects the humans’ religion to the point that he still lets people come to pray every Sunday as they want.

And then we pass the double doors at the entrance.

Brice keeps looking back at me to see if I’m still following .

I don’t know what he thinks, but there is no way I’m running away now. I’m pretty sure I’m on a list of most wanted people after what I pulled next to my home, so I’ll take any protection.

It’s not the same as when I went with Daniel this time, though, because I know perfectly well what to expect outside. I don’t plan on just strolling around and entering the catacombs like it’s something I do every week.

Not that I really do that every week.

I’ve never been there. I’ve never even set foot in the Sacré Coeur my whole life. But I know Christina. I know her enough that she’ll grant me entry.

When we get out onto the parvis of Notre Dame, I expect to see the jet from earlier waiting for us, but there’s nothing.

“I thought we were going now,” I tell Brice, half expecting the jet to appear as we wait.

“We are,” he tells me with a smirk.

“Explain,” I answer, narrowing my eyes at him as he gets closer to me.

“Tell me where we need to go and I’ll tell you how we’re getting there,” he tells me. I think it’s supposed to be a question, but it sounds more like a command.

I cross my arms.

“I’ll tell you when we’re in our means of transportation,” I say to him.

He gets closer to me, and in one smooth swoop, slips a hand under my knees and at my back before bringing me flush to him.

“What are you doing?” I shriek more than say.

“You can tell me now,” he says as his wings sprout from his back, hiding me from the late afternoon sun.

It takes me a second to comprehend what he means, and when I do, I wiggle in his grasp.

“Nope. No way. I’m not doing this,” I tell him, trying to get out of his arms .

Did I say I liked how his hand felt on my back earlier? I rescind that thought. I hate it. I want out. Right the fuck now.

“It’s the most discreet way,” he tells me, still grasping me tightly against him. He hasn’t broken a sweat at all with all the thrashing I’ve been doing. It’s like I weigh nothing and my kicking feet aren’t even an inconvenience.

“Discreet, my ass,” I say.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you that those jets and flying cars can be tracked from one point to another …” he answers as he looks down at me.

Fuck, he’s right.

I’m suddenly very glad that the clothes he has provided are so covering, because I already feel completely naked when he looks at me with that kind of intensity.

“Okay,” I mumble under my breath as I stop moving and relax in his embrace—or as much as I can, knowing I’m about to be propelled into the sky like a rocket.

“What?” he asks with a devious smile. “I couldn’t hear you well.”

“You heard me perfectly well.”

“I still want you to say it louder.”

“You’re an ass, but you’re right. There, happy now?” I ask him, my tone full of sarcasm.

“Very much. Where to?” he asks me as he jumps and I feel the contents of my stomach slosh inside of it.

Why did he make me eat before doing this? I’m going to get sick.

I feel like my position is reversed with Daniel earlier in the jet.

Damn. Why did I let Brice convince me?

Because you call that convincing? You were so ready to stay in his arms … my own mind provides for me.

Fuck you .

And now I’m insulting myself. How low did I fall …?

No. No talking of falling. It’s definitely not the right time to talk about falling .

“Open your eyes, Miss Furious,” Brice croons against my ear and it’s such a stark contrast to the wind whipping at my hair that my eyes open of their own accord.

All I see is him, though. His eyes are focused on my every reaction and I almost close my eyes again at the scrutiny.

“You forgot to tell me where to go,” he says as we keep climbing.

His arms are like bands of steel around my back and knees and I realize that despite the fact my stomach tried to jump out when he took-off, everything in my body seems to react well to being in the sky.

Or maybe it’s because I’m in the sky in his arms.

I don’t want to look too closely at that thought, though. I’m pretty sure it would make me relax too much in his embrace and any comfort I would find between his arms would be whisked away the second we’re back on the ground.

“The side entrance to the Sacré Coeur ,” I tell him.

After all, it’s the only entrance to the catacombs that I know of that is both easily accessed and monitored by Libération.

And I don’t want to struggle to locate anyone in this damn maze. I’ve already waited enough to get my answers.