Page 62 of Thief of Night (The Charlatan Duology #2)

Red deserved his fortune, deserved it every bit as much as Remy and Adeline. But he would never have chosen this way of getting it. He would never have traded his freedom for cash. No, he’d traded his life for hers.

“You can’t do this all for me,” Charlie cautioned him.

He left her, walking toward the driver’s side. “It’s done.”

Charlie got into the car, a wave of tiredness washing over her. In the cup on the passenger side rested a coffee from Dunkin’. The aroma of it filled the car, banishing the expensive smell of leather.

“You bought me a coffee,” Charlie said.

“I did,” he replied. “I might never get my memories back, but I know your coffee order.”

She took a sip, warming her hands on the cup. “So what happens next?”

“I take you home,” he told her. “To the new apartment.”

“And you?” Charlie asked, but she already knew the answer.

“I’m going home too. To the mansion.”

Charlie nodded. His life was in Adeline’s hands. Not only did she know his secret, but now she had legal control of him. His lawyers were really her lawyers.

Red had his old life back. His monstrous life, where he was treated like a monster.

She thought of him, coming to her like a sky god in the woods, the hushed ice-covered night all around them. Thought of him looking at her in confusion and pain as he told her that his feelings for her were unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

“I can get you out of this,” Charlie told him. She’d gotten him away from the Cabals twice. She could find a way.

“Stop trying to save me,” he told her. “It’s my turn to save you.”

There was nothing else she had to give him and so there was no way to keep him. When he dropped her off at her too-fancy apartment and she leaned over to kiss his soft mouth, it felt like goodbye.

Christmas came and Charlie went to her mother’s place, offering no explanation for Vince’s absence.

None of them talked about him. Charlie’s mother tried to get her alone to discuss the confession, but Charlie stuck to the couch and the appetizer tray, even pushing Bob to teach her how to play Magic: The Gathering to keep from getting pulled into the conversation she was steadfastly avoiding.

“Honey,” her mother said, when she was about to leave. “We need to talk.”

“We absolutely don’t,” Charlie said. Standing in the doorway, she realized that she no longer wanted her mother’s forgiveness.

That beneath all her fear was a burning flame of fury.

That maybe she’d been afraid, not of what her mother was going to say, but of what Charlie herself might.

“The best thing about not being a child is that no one can make you do anything you don’t want to do. ”

At work, Charlie moved as mechanically and methodically through her shifts as Don could have ever desired.

But he still brought up the shifts she’d missed and badgered her about various things he had persnickety ideas about—garnishes, which drinks ought to be shaken, whether amaro was even good.

And he still argued with Erin during his breaks, whisper-shouting into his phone.

One evening, Odette sat at the bar while Charlie mixed orange bitters with simple syrup for an old-fashioned. Balthazar drank an amaretto sour on the other side.

Don frowned. “You’re supposed to use a sugar cube.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’m not a purist and no one likes grit in their glass.”

“It’s not gritty if you muddle it correctly,” he said.

“Not only am I not going to use a sugar cube,” she told him. “I am going to use a cherry as garnish. And if you keep at me, I am going to add an orange slice too.”

“If you want to ruin—”

“I can’t bear watching this anymore,” Odette said, giving an exasperated sigh. “Someone has to give that boy what he wants.”

“A smack in the face?” Charlie guessed, raising her eyebrows.

Odette matched her raised eyebrows.

“Very funny,” said Don.

Charlie set the finished drink—with cherry, without orange slice—in front of Odette.

After taking a large sip, the elderly woman slipped off her stool. Tonight, she wore a leopard-print coat dress with a wide belt. Walking behind the bar to where Don stood, she rested her hands on her hips and looked up at him. “Well? Ready to tell us?”

He appeared nervous.

Odette gave a long, frustrated sigh. “Charity work isn’t really my thing, darling, but needs must. Now, pay attention. If you’d like me to stop, all you have to do is tell me so. No risk to your job. No risk to your sensibilities.” Then she reached up and closed her fingers around his throat.

Don froze, which made sense, since his semiretired dominatrix boss had her hand on his neck. But the expression on his face had something oddly yearning in it. “I—don’t—”

“Really, darling?” Odette smiled up at him. “Then tell me to stop.”

Don said absolutely nothing.

“Good,” she told him. “So, would you like Charlie to give you a little slap?”

Don still didn’t speak.

“Oh my.” Balthazar leaned forward on his barstool, appearing riveted. “You should have put this on the main stage.”

Odette shook her head as though very disappointed in both Balthazar and Don. “If you can’t say it, you won’t get it.”

“Okay, fine,” Don spat out the words.

Charlie sucked in an incredulous breath. Could Odette be right? Was Don provoking people around him, hoping for a very specific kind of bad attention?

“Yes, what ?” Odette’s voice was stern.

“I’d like her to slap me.” Don looked down.

“You want her to slap you…” Odette tightened her grip, although it was clear he could pull away from her any time he wanted. She was small, her fingers thin.

“Please,” he said.

Balthazar snorted. “Well, fuck a duck.”

Odette turned to Charlie. “Would you like to do the honors? Not necessary, of course. Enthusiastic consent is my byword, for everyone.”

Oh, Charlie definitely would like to slap Don after everything he’d said to her, though she was sure that wasn’t entirely in the spirit of the game.

She walked up to him, smiled, then swung her open palm across his cheek.

It was extremely satisfying, although clearly not in the same way that he found it satisfying.

Don’s cheek pinked, his neck flushing red with embarrassment.

“Well, you best go on home, darling,” Odette said to Charlie. “Balthazar, you can go back downstairs. Don and I have some talking to do.”

Later that week, Rapture had their own holiday party and Odette gave the staff presents.

Charlie got a copper French press. Rachel got a calamansi plant.

The two barbacks got bottles of imported, capital C Champagne.

Don got a leather and steel ball-gag. Balthazar showed up, demanding his present.

Odette told him his present was not being asked to pay for all the drinks on his tab.

The next morning, Charlie sat in the bright light of the windows in the fancy new apartment and drank coffee from her new French press. A small smile formed on her mouth without her being entirely conscious of it.

Posey came in with the mail, handing Charlie a black envelope sealed with stamped wax. The thick creamy linen of the envelope was bad enough, but inside, the invitation shone with gold engraving:

Remy Vincent Carver cordially requests the honor of your company at a black-tie New Year’s Eve gala.

Written at the bottom in Red’s handwriting were two words: Please come.