Page 9 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

S ilence loomed as we stood alone in our flat, thicker than the darkness settling beyond the windows. Paris shimmered like a city entirely unaware of the chaos that had detonated at the Palais de l’élysée.

Thomas poured two fingers of bourbon into tumblers without asking. He handed one to me, his fingers brushing mine as I took the glass.

Neither of us spoke as I dropped onto the couch.

The image of Max Petitpierre’s head snapping back kept replaying in my mind, looped like a cursed reel.

Blood on lace.

The French President’s stunned face.

The shriek.

The shattering of crystal.

I took a sip. The bourbon burned like it should. My hand still shook .

“That wasn’t a lone gunman,” I said finally, voice low.

Thomas sat beside me on the couch, elbows on his knees. “No, it was too clean and too public to have been only one man.”

I nodded. “There was no panic at the perimeter, no screaming from the staff. They weren’t caught off-guard. Either the staff was in on it or whoever did it were ghosts, in and out without raising alarm or suspicion.”

“Did you hear anything on the way out?” Thomas asked. “Anything from the guards or other guests who might know if a suspect had been spotted?”

I shook my head. “The guards were either directing traffic or racing about the grounds on their hunt. You were with me the whole time. If we’d heard anything from others, you would’ve heard it, too.”

Thomas took a long pull of his drink, then exhaled. “And the timing—right as Auriol raised his glass. Whoever pulled the trigger had eyes on everything.”

I hadn’t really thought of that little tidbit.

Replaying the moments before the shot rang out, Auriol had just raised his glass and drawn Europe’s spotlight on his fellow president. Was that important? Was it intentional? Or had the shooter simply chosen that moment because he had a clear line of sight and a still target ?

We sat in silence a moment more, letting the possibilities ferment.

I downed the last of my alcohol and slumped back against the couch’s plush cushion. “Can you believe the Baroness?”

Thomas snorted. “She said she’s how we got our invitations to the dinner.”

“You believe that?”

Thomas shrugged and tossed back his glass before depositing it onto the coffee table, then slumped beside me so our shoulders were smushed together.

“She’s a lot of things, but a liar has never been one of them—at least, I don’t believe she’s lied to us. She clearly lies to everyone else most of the time.”

It was my turn to chuckle. “She definitely is something, like a piece of the sun broke off and fell to Earth and we can’t look away from her brilliance.”

“That was almost poetic, Mr. Shaw.” Thomas looked over, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “She was practically wearing the Crown Jewels.”

I laughed, no longer a chuckle but full-throated amusement. “God, she hasn’t changed. Still dramatic and larger than life.”

“She called us by our Paris cover names. That was . . . interesting.”

I reached over and gripped Thomas’s hand. “It’s not like we’re hiding here. Anyone who knows we’re in Paris knows those names. ”

His thumb began tracing circles on the back of my hand, found a prominent artery, then rubbed up and down its path. “That’s true. Still . . . when we were on-mission with her, she only knew our German cover names.”

“She heard our bird names, too.”

“True,” he replied. “But that was years ago, and we never kept in touch. For her to appear out of nowhere, arrange for us to attend a French state dinner, then know our covers? It just makes me itch.”

“I think she enjoys unnerving you. Like a cat with a mouse.”

Thomas chuckled. “She saved our asses in Switzerland.”

“More than once.”

“All she would say was that she had ‘friends in old places,’ whatever that means. I didn’t press.”

I freed my hand, pushed off the couch, and refilled our glasses. Once reseated with my shoulder comfortably nuzzled against Thomas’s, I swirled the bourbon in my glass, staring at the amber liquid like it might give me answers. “I always wondered what happened to her after Bern. She just vanished.”

“She didn’t vanish. We did,” he corrected. “She’s back and wearing diamonds the size of your ego. ”

“ My ego, Monsieur DuPont?” I elbowed him in the ribs and grinned. For the briefest moment, the weight of the night eased.

Then Thomas added, “But she was rattled, too. That wasn’t an act.”

I nodded. “Which means whatever happened tonight was a hell of a lot bigger than even she could’ve imagined . . . and that woman’s imagination scares me.”

After a moment, I nudged him and said, “At least you didn’t catch a bullet this time.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” He raised his glass in salute. “Besides, you made me promise not to get shot again.”

“Damn right, I did. If you ever get shot again, it better be because I did it.”

“Will!”

I elbowed him again. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, asshole.”

We sat in silence, sipping bourbon, enjoying the simple feel of each other’s presence.

Outside, Paris twinkled on.

Ring-ring .

Thomas groaned.

Ring-ring .

I rolled over, my annoyed moan forming a harmony with his.

Ring-ring .

“Who the fuck is calling in the middle of the night?” Thomas asked.

Ring-ring .

“Whoever they are, they’re not giving up.”

Ring-ring .

“The phone’s on your side. It’s your duty. Save me, Mr. Will. Save me.”

Ring-ring .

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” I said, meaning none of it, as I reached from beneath the gloriously warm, thick covers and exposed my arm to the Parisian chill.

“ Allo ,” I grumbled into the receiver, just sour enough to ensure the offending caller understood what they’d done and might feel a spark of guilt. It was a pitiful hope, but it was all I had at that ungodly hour.

An annoyingly perky voice spoke in clipped French, “Laundry pickup. Ready by eleven tomorrow. Thank you for using Blanchisserie Sainte-Claire.”

The line went dead.

I sat up, now fully awake, replaced the receiver, and rubbed my eyes.

“What was that?” Thomas asked, still buried beneath a mountain of comforter and sheets .

“A summons from our neighborhood dry cleaner.”

“Aw, shit,” Thomas muttered. “I was just getting used to staying in one place, especially this place.”

I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I’m going to make coffee. There’s no way I can sleep now.”

“Wake me up in time for our laundry date. Nothing says loving couple like picking up the cleaning together.”

I laughed. “Fuck you, Thomas Jacobs.”

“Come back to bed and say that.”