Page 77 of Salt Kiss
No, I guess it isn’t. But still. “This is hardly casual, Ms. Laurence. This is about where you’ll live.”
“Call me Isolde,” she says. “Please. We’ll be together way too much for you to ‘Ms. Laurence’ me at every turn.”
“Okay, Isolde,” I say. “What do you want to know?”
It turns out that she wasn’t exaggerating when she said she wanted to know everything. What the food is like—delicious and creepy—and if it’s loud on the weekends—the apartments are extremely well-insulated from sound—and if it feels like the staff are everywhere—yes but in a way that feels efficient and friendly, like being on base. She wants to know where I do my laundry and if I’m in the hall with Mark at night and how busy he is during the day.
“Very busy,” I answer the last. We’re onto a course of lamb, kohlrabi, and wild garlic now. The wine is red—and tastes red, about as far as my beer-drinking palate will take me—but it’s beautiful in Isolde’s hand, a deep ruby color curling in the glass. “Although less busy since the stabbing, obviously. The doctor had to get pretty stern with him about resting and recovering, but I think Mr. Trevena’s listening now.”
She sets the glass down. She blinks. “I’m sorry, Mark was stabbed?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, perplexed. “Why did you think I came in his place?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. “I thought maybe he was busy. We haven’t spoken in a while,” she says. And then adds at my expression, “I was hired on at an art and antiquities firm right after graduation, and I’ve been scrambling a little with my new remote-work schedule.”
It’s delivered easily, not defensively, but it’s still strange. Sure, they’re both busy, but being stabbed seems like one of those events that transcendsbusy.And then—oh God, I’m going to hell—there’s a flare of quick, selfish pleasure at knowing thatIknew. I knew, and he’s been blowing up my phone all day, demanding to know our locations, if we were safely on the yacht, if everything seems to be to her liking.
It’smyphone lighting up in my pocket, and it wasmyhands that wiped the blood from his chest, and it wasmymouth around his cock when he needed release and was still too injured to fuck.
And then as quickly as the pleasure came, it fades away. He’s texting me abouther, he sent me to gether.And the whole time I was anything to Mark, he was engaged to Isolde.
I’m suddenly miserable. With myself, with Mark, with how I still ache for him. I’m miserable looking at the elegant woman across from me, seven years younger and yet with a natural self-possession I’ll never have. The woman who accepted a blessing from a cardinal like it was as normal as a pat on the back, who seems like she has no idea her fiancé was fucking the man sitting across the table from her.
“There was an attack on Lyonesse last week,” I explain. “Mark was stabbed in the shoulder. A businessman with Carpathian rebel connections was responsible.”
Isolde licks her lips and looks down. “I thought Lyonesse was secure.”
“It was an open house—lots of guests. We thought we’d vetted them all but apparently not. And we’re increasing all of our security, background checks, everything.” Seeking to reassure her, I add, “You’ll be safe there, I promise. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll take care of you.”
She lifts her gaze to mine, and there’s an openness to her expression, like I’ve surprised her. “That’s nice of you to say,” she says. “I don’t—it’s been a while since someone’s offered that.”
I’m surprised by her surprise. “It’s my job,” I state. “And Mark has told me that you’re the most important thing in the world to him. Of course we’ll keep you safe.”
It stings to say out loud as much as it stung to hear, but I don’t think Isolde notices. Her eyes have moved to the side, to the pinks and blues dimming over the dark and broken coast.
“And he’s okay?” she asks in a murmur. “Truly okay?”
“Yes,” I say, and her expression is too opaque now for me to parse, but I think she’s relieved. Of course she is. Mark is her fiancé.
“I’m glad,” she says softly, after a long moment. And then the conversation dies until we finish our meal, and she excuses herself to go to bed.
Twenty-Six
I wake early enoughthe next morning that I can see the sun lift itself, small and cadmium orange, over the water. It’s been almost a week of waking up without Mark, and I’m still not used to it. To a bed being cold, to being able to move freely without his thighs wrapping around mine or without being hauled even tighter against his chest so he can bite my neck.
I’ve given up wondering why it feels better to wake up that way, weighted down and in immediate danger of being nipped at. Maybe years of body armor and war have ruined me for anything else.
I watch the break of day from the balcony of my suite, glancing occasionally at Isolde’s neighboring balcony. The curtains are drawn shut over the door, but I see a splinter of light coming through. She’s awake.
My mind is on Isolde when I step back inside—whether she’s slept okay, what she wears to bed—and I’m trying to drag my thoughts back intoprofessionally interested bodyguardterritory when my phone rings.
It’s Mark. It’s still late at night where he is, and I’m surprised I don’t hear the noise of the hall in the background when I answer.
“Sir,” I greet as I close the balcony door behind me.
“Tristan,” says Mark. His voice is rough and a little warmer than usual. Almost like he’s pleased to hear my voice.
Which is wishful thinking on my part. Would he be pleased to fuck me? Tie me up and top me? Absolutely. But he doesn’t miss me.
