Page 8 of Honey Cut
I tell him about what I saw as I step into the penthouse and go straight to my room to find my work laptop. And yes—there they are, a handful of feeds nestled under the building’s address on our security portal. All of them are watermarked with the name of the building’s private security firm, so God only knows what kind of bribery—or worse—Mark employed to get access to them.
I click back on the recording until I find what I’m looking for: a glimpse of the picture taker’s face. Short hair the color of used dishwater, a tattoo on one side of his neck. Flat features like partially rolled-out dough. The screen grab is not as high-quality as I’d like, but it’s enough. I send it to Goran.
“There are roughly a hundred and twenty condominiums inside Mark’s building,” Goran points out as I’m doing this. “It’s very possible that he’s creeping on a different resident.”
“Still. Do you mind passing it around to the team?”
“Not in the least. And we’ll run it too, see if we can find any matches in law enforcement databases, although it usually takes us a bit to get the international hits. Might have to have Mark’s pet hacker Lox on that one. Either way, you can rest easy as long as you’re up in Mark’s little nest. He owns the unit beneath his floor and keeps it empty, and the floor above him is one of those mechanical fake floors. No one’s coming from above or below—or through the front door, for that matter.”
I believe Goran, but I still don’t like it. Ever since the attack on Lyonesse, I’ve been acutely aware of how quickly everything can unravel, and there’s more than just Mark to protect now. There’s Isolde too.
I hang up and shower, and then I do my best to set it aside. Years of combat have taught me not to ignore my instincts; years of sleepless nights between skirmishes and engagements have also taught me not to hyperfixate until I know something to be a threat.
But I still don’t like it, and between that and my abbreviated phone call with Cara, it’s a very long time before I fall asleep.
three
ISOLDE
I wakeup struggling for air.
It’s the two priests in Seville, their eyes staring up at the moon as the Guadalquivir washed them away from the shore. It’s the surprised gasp of the billionaire in Gdansk as I slipped my honeysuckle knife between his ribs. It’s the archbishop in Rome, coffee splattered on his cassock, his last words heavy in the Italian sunlight.You can’t.
But I could. I did.
And now I can’t breathe.
A shadow moves in my room, and a hand presses to my naked belly, warm and strong and big enough to splay across my entire stomach between my rucked-up tank top and my underwear.
“Breathe,” comes Tristan’s voice. “Honey, you need to breathe.”
Honey. The word is like honey itself—clear and golden and sweeter than anything. No one’s ever called me anything like that and meant it. Not since my mother died.
“Lift my hand,” Tristan urges quietly. “You can do it.”
I fight to inhale, my throat working, my chest like something hollowed out and filled with concrete. But there’s Tristan’s hand, the ring that Mark gave him cool against my stomach, the pressure of it so solid and sure, and suddenly I can do it, I can breathe. Air fills my lungs, and I choke a little around it, but Tristan just murmurs in approval, his eyes shining in the dark.
I inhale again, almost normally, and the nightmare is receding like a tide. Stealing away to hide until the inevitable gravity of night brings it back.
“Good,” Tristan says, and his voice is so lovely, a melody. A singer’s voice and not a soldier’s. “Good.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. He came into my cabin on the yacht last night too, even though we’d already ended things, and helped me just like he’s doing now. “You don’t have to do this. I managed to live with the nightmares for three years. I’ll have to do it for the rest of my life. I’ll be okay on my own.”
“I don’t want you to be on your own, though,” Tristan says, and there’s a world of pain in his voice. In the dark, I can’t read his face or follow his eyes, and so I don’t know if he’s looking at me or looking up at the ceiling, where just above us, my future husband sleeps.
Tristan still hasn’t lifted his hand from my stomach, even though I’m breathing just fine now, and I think I can feel every crease of his palm, every whorl of his fingertips on my skin. His hand is warm and a little rough. Lingering calluses from war, maybe.
And my body is singing, nerve endings flashing, as it recalls every single place that hand has been. Hard on my breast, spread over my backside. Inside me, inside me.
Clouds shift enough outside that I can see he’s looking down at where he’s touching me. His fingers twitch, and my belly quivers. A dark cloud blooms below my navel, lust and shame mixed, the kind of guilt that only feeds desire.
My own guilt is strange to me. I’ve accepted that with Mark, I must be Esther, Ruth, Tamar. That sex is the weapon I’m meant to use, a weaponforGod’s will and therefore sanctified.
But sex with Tristan was never part of the plan—isdangerousto the plan—and is wrong on every single level.
“We’re not real in the dark,” I say in a whisper. Permission.
Tristan doesn’t say anything back, but I feel a shudder run through him.
