Page 102 of He Knows When You're Awake

“I know. I know this was never your plan.” She pauses and appears to shake off any darkness that passed through her eyes. “Are we in agreement thatplansaren’t always the best path?” she teases, clearly trying to lighten the moment.

A crash from across the room draws our attention. Julian’s on his knees, Knox’s team surrounding him as he spits curses and threats. The perfect, polished mask is gone completely now. All that’s left is the raw, ugly truth underneath.

He’s not listening anymore, his eyes fixed on the fireplace, on the spot where Claire used to sit and sketch. Lost in whatever twisted version of the past he’s created for himself.

Knox appears at my side, offering Sloane his hand. “Building’s secure. Medical team’s outside if you need them.”

She takes his hand, lets him pull her to her feet. “I’m fine. But my designs—”

“Already recovered.” Knox’s normally stern expression softens slightly. “All of them. Team found them exactly where you said they’d be, Cole. Along with enough evidence of fraud and conspiracy to put him away for a very long time.”

I stand, keeping my hand on Sloane’s back. She’s trembling slightly, though whether from adrenaline or cold, I’m not sure. “Let’s get out of here.”

I shrug off my jacket, draping it over her shoulders. She leans into me slightly, but her eyes are on the horizon where the sun is just starting to paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.

“Not exactly how I planned to spend Christmas morning,” she says quietly, then tenses. “Havoc—”

“Is fine. My assistant is watching him.” I pull her closer. “And I still have those breakfast reservations at Rivers.”

She looks down at her wrinkled and torn dress, touching a largetear at the hem. “Cole, I can’t go to Rivers like this. Let’s just go home.”

“You haven’t tried their cinnamon rolls yet.” I can’t quite keep the longing out of my voice. After the night we’ve had, I need something normal. Something good.

She studies my face for a moment, her expression softening. “Pretty sure showing up looking like this violates every dress code they have.”

“We just survived our ownDie HardChristmas. I think we can get away with being a little disheveled.”

That gets a real smile. “Does that make me Bruce Willis in this scenario?”

“Yippee ki-yay,” I murmur into her hair, and feel her laugh against my chest.

Behind us, Knox’s team leads Julian out in handcuffs. He doesn’t look at us. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares straight ahead as they put him in the waiting car.

“Come on.” I take her hand. “Let’s go celebrate our first Christmas together.”

Chapter FortySloane

Leo, Rivers’ legendary maître d’, actually takes a step back when we walk in. I can’t blame him. My Marchesa dress, which started the evening as a masterpiece of red silk, now looks like I’ve gone three rounds with a paper shredder. Cole’s tactical gear is barely concealed by his overcoat, and there’s a faint dusting of glass in his hair that catches the light like frost.

Leo opens his mouth—probably to suggest we might be more comfortable somewhere else—but Cole just looks at him. It’s not threatening, exactly, but it carries the weight of a man who’s spent the night destroying everything Julian built.

“Your usual corner table, Mr. Asher?” Leo asks, already reaching for the menus. Cole nods, and we follow him through the restaurant.

The view of Manhattan stretches out before us, everything dusted in snow and twinkling with Christmas lights. It would be magical if I wasn’t so aware of the other diners stealing glances at us.

“Bloody Mary,” I tell the waiter before he can even hand me a menu. “Extra bloody.”

Cole’s lips twitch. “Coffee. And two orders of the cinnamon rolls.” He glances at me. “Unless you want your own order?”

“I think I’ll start with the vodka and see where that takes us.”

The waiter hurries away, probably grateful for an excuse to escape the intensity radiating from our table. Cole’s hand hasn’t leftmy lower back since we walked in, and his eyes keep scanning the room in a way that would seem paranoid if we hadn’t just survived what we did.

“The police will want statements,” he says quietly, thumb moving in small circles against my spine. “Knox is handling the initial reports, but—”

“Can we maybe save the criminal proceedings discussion until after I’ve had my drink?”

His expression softens. “Of course. What would you prefer to discuss? The weather? The stock market? The fact that you managed to make two trained Russian mercenaries argue about vodka brands for five hours?”