Marielle did not sleep that night. In fact, she forced herself to do anything except sleep. She took her dress off, rinsed her face free of makeup, and removed the jewelry to slip into an oversized T-shirt. Maybe being comfortable would help her think more clearly.
She started with cleaning the kitchen by wiping down the counters and bleaching the sink, and then followed that with throwing away old and expired food from her fridge and cabinets. The only thing she proved to herself was that being more comfortable had not made her mind work any better, so she swept and mopped the floor before proceeding to the bathroom, where she did the same.
The entire time she scrubbed, dried, wiped, and drank more coffee, all she kept thinking was, Marielle Jeanne Masin Chaenes…
She had not told Vincent her middle name—in fact, no one knew it because she rarely used it. The only person at Valorant who might remember it was Sabine, and she saw no reason for Sabine to have told Vincent her middle name, particularly since he hadn’t said a word until Marielle herself had spoken with him.
The entire situation was beyond infuriating, and she quickly found that the only way she could think was to not think at all, and instead clean the entire apartment top to bottom. She put headphones in and blasted Gunship to help keep her awake while she made the place spotless.
When she finally had the mental space to put aside the secret message in the book, she resumed her plans for the evening. This began with finishing The Old Man and the Sea, which she had initially disliked but grown strangely fond of as the night went on. Maybe it was because of Vincent’s words and how she saw some symbolism in it now, but she settled on feeling like she didn’t entirely hate it.
After she finished the book, she went back to her scenarios. This lasted the better part of two hours, and resumed with her and Vincent fighting, first in a heated argument, then physically. If she was honest with herself, Marielle knew he could take her down in minutes. According to the dossier, he stood at six foot two and weighed a hundred and eighty-seven pounds, most of which was probably muscle in his chest and arms. He looked strong.
She also imagined fighting with him side by side, then being in combat together, and finally working together. The combat scenario triggered several memories of their conversation, and she realized he was ex-military. The precise way he had folded the clothes on his bed told her this, as well as something about his posture while she had questioned him. From this, and eventually landing on a scenario that felt correct based on everything she knew about him, she found herself more confused than before. He wasn’t trustworthy…
“To who?” she wondered aloud, looking around the apartment for any more dust to wipe up. “To me?” She shook her head. “To headquarters?”
Marielle sighed, scratching her head. “It doesn’t make sense. He’s trustworthy, but he’s not?” She was even more dumbfounded than before. “He’ll betray someone,” she realized, although it was a general statement, not a prediction about the future. “Why?”
She gave that one up for the moment. Everything would reveal itself in time.
One that was a bit harder and more personal, now: lovemaking…. She stuffed every one of those scenarios into the back of her head, not even thinking of them after they’d come and gone.
“Daring… is the way I make love,” she kept thinking and repeating out loud. “What does that even mean?”
She lay back on her bed and entered another scenario with him: pleasure. It engulfed the room, and her bed. She was attracted to him, so there was no need to pretend for this set of scenarios. His dark eyes were mysterious and intoxicating, his smile full of suggestion and intent. Yes, if she were honest, she knew he was attracted to her, too—at least, he showed all the signs of attraction. The only conclusion she drew from this set of fantasies was that he was, in fact, more of a lover than a fighter. But he was a fighter all the same.
The moment her head hit the pillow, she found that between the coffee buzz, the adrenaline from the fight at the table when she had first begun, the mix of emotions still swirling around her head, and the glaringly obvious message Vincent had left her in a book she’d never laid hands on in her entire life, she would have to equalize before doing anything else.
Felix joined her on the bed and curled up at her side, and after grooming himself for a moment, he fell promptly asleep. As a few tears leaked from her eyes, she rolled onto her side, hugging herself around the middle and wondering how she’d end a night full of real emotional drainage and pain.
Shivering, she hugged herself more tightly. Was it cold? Or was she spent beyond her ability to perceive anything and it was giving her a chill?
It isn’t cold, she decided. It’s August. I’m probably just wishing it were cold.
Her eyes fluttered and began to close, the weight of exhaustion overtaking her. It was just after four, and she wasn’t even sure how she’d managed to stay awake this long.
She felt Vincent slip in behind her. Silk slid against her skin, and the weight of the bed shifted, then settled. His arm enveloped her as he pulled her into his strong upper body, making her vanish. He’d call her “love” if they were together, wouldn’t he?
All feelings of discomfort, violation, exhilaration, confusion, and chaos left her. His presence was neither foreign nor unwelcome, although she had no clarity of mind to understand why. He wasn’t touching her inappropriately. He wasn’t causing her pain. He wasn’t sharing a coffee with her over a small table in France. He was simply there, as familiar as a lover.
“I’ll keep you warm, love,” he whispered, and she could feel his breath against the back of her neck as he dipped and planted a small, tender kiss there.
Too exhausted to care whether he was really there or not—although he felt real enough— she allowed fatigue to overwhelm her. “Okay,” she breathed before she drifted into a deep sleep.
***
Whirring above. An alarm, piercing and unceasing. Marielle running, running so fast her legs burned, her feet slamming into the floor below…
Where was Sabine? Where was Morgan? Oh, no… Where was John?
Another dreadful thought followed, even more unyielding and horrible. Where was Peter?
Tearing a door open, sliding and crashing into the wall, hurting her arm but pressing forward through the pain. Reaching the biochem department only to find it locked down from the inside. People scrambling in every direction.
“Lock this down!”
John slamming his hand down on a button. “Cover going out!”
A beat, then his grave pronouncement. “Cover ineffective.”
Morgan standing at the glass, looking out at Marielle with Peter in his arms. A drawing dangling from Peter’s hand. Peter’s innocent face, unaware of the danger…
Sabine sliding in next to her, a look of inexpressible terror in her eyes. The room beyond the glass growing darker. John going from panel to panel, frantically pressing buttons. Voices shouting, Morgan’s among them. John taking Peter, moving away with him.
Morgan sans child turning to Sabine, mouthing, “I love you…”
Blackness… nothing… silence… horror…
Marielle blinked awake. Some nights, she slept restfully and woke carefree, but other nights images from the incident plagued her dreams. This time, the dream blurred into nothing in her head, and her only thought was, I’m alone. She realized she’d slept for five and a half hours. It was nearly noon, and she was starving.
After taking a short shower and throwing on some jade-green pants and a black T-shirt, she quickly ate eggs, spinach, and a green smoothie to help wake her up. Then she decided she had to get back to headquarters today and figure out a way to speak to Vincent again, whether the others let her or not.
She rushed the entire way to Valorant after getting off the subway, her mind racing with a thousand different ways to ask him the many questions she had.
No such luck. When she arrived, Jamie was waiting for her again. He shook his head at her, and her eyes widened in terror.
“He’s dead?”
“Nah!” Jamie laughed, slapping his knee. “But you ain’t seein’ him any time this hour, love.”
Marielle narrowed her eyes in thought for a moment. Why not? She figured she’d find out soon enough. “What are you doing here anyway? How’d you even know I’d be here?”
“I just like this wall,” he replied. Then he smiled and pointed up. “See that window? I can see you coming down the block.”
She glanced up to where he was pointing and saw it was a window in the library. “Oh…”
“I was studying, thought it was time for a break.”
“And what’s with the sad shaking of the head?”
“You know that guy? The other profiler?” Jamie jerked a thumb over his left shoulder and briefly glanced in that direction. “He’s here, and you’re next on the list.”
Marielle felt her heart sink. Great. Just what she needed, this jackass preventing her from talking to Vincent. But regardless of how much she didn’t want to speak with or even meet Austin Rancor, she had no choice.
When Marielle entered the building, Barbara Hammond approached her, walking across the foyer’s marble flooring with determination in her step.
“We figured you’d be here a little earlier today,” she said, disappointment edging her tone as she extended her hand.
“I have a process, and it often takes all night,” Marielle explained. “Plus, I have no patients today.”
She reflexively took Barbara’s hand and shook it. It was only then that Marielle noticed the man next to her, and she began imagining the conversation that had taken place before she walked into the building. They’d been talking about her, and Barbara had probably thrown in some gibberish about how Marielle was impressive but too headstrong, as well as a complaint that she was late, thus keeping precious Austin waiting.
“Figure anything out?” Barbara pressed.
“Well…” Marielle’s gaze flicked from Austin, who was obviously sizing her up, to Barbara. “Yes, but I need to speak with him again first.”
Her eyes went back to the other profiler as she spoke. She’d smelled him long before she had seen him. It was a difficult fragrance to describe, like a frosty forest. It was intoxicating. Before this moment, her favorite scent had been cinnamon, but right now, it was Austin.
He was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, around six feet tall, with striking blue eyes and dark, wavy hair he’d tamed just enough to be attractive. He was beyond incredibly handsome, for lack of a better way of putting it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a more attractive person, let alone a more attractive man. On top of his striking appearance, there was something intensely sensual about him, but for the moment she didn’t care enough to dig into it—or him. All she cared about was getting to Vincent, so naturally, she wanted to piss Austin off.
He pulled his right sleeve down a bit, reached out, and gave her a strong handshake. Her hand trembled a little, and her cheeks flushed with annoyance. “Steven, was it?”
He gave her a cocky, knowing smile, revealing perfect, gleaming white teeth, although he filled the space at the end of his grin with something more genuine. He’d just figured something out about her—it was as plain on his face as if he’d been told all of her most intimate secrets.
“Austin,” he corrected, his voice deep but on the softer side, pleasant, and formal. She instantly liked it.
“Marielle Chaenes.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” He finally let her hand go, and Marielle realized he hadn’t blinked or broken gaze with her since he’d walked up with Barbara. Charming. “Can you spare a few minutes, Ms. Chaenes?”
She swallowed and looked to Jamie, who had joined up with Mateo as he was coming down the hall from the kitchen. There was something hanging from Mateo’s mouth; Marielle thought it was a banana, but couldn’t tell. Mateo glanced at her, then at Austin Rancor, and made a gesture with his finger across his throat. Both he and Jamie thought this was hilarious and walked off toward training, chuckling the whole way down the hall. She could hear their laughter even after she couldn’t see them anymore.
That was Mateo. He was one of the younger agents at Valorant. Marielle knew him as compassionate, especially toward animals and his “familiars,” yet he was also difficult to understand. Not that Mateo’s accent was thick or anything—he literally had a hard time getting words out. If his recently dyed neon-green hair and insane sense of style—which generally focused on brightly colored sweater vests and checkered pants—weren’t jarring to a person, his tattoos and “friends” would certainly make you blink.
Mateo’s agent name was Gekko, and his abilities were tied to four companions he carted around with him in a specially made pack. All of them existed in a natural state known as globule, but when utilized, Wingman—with whom Mateo played with the most—Dizzy, Thrash, and Mosh Pit could cause debilitating damage to anyone who got in Mateo’s way. Wingman was a little yellow creature that mostly mimicked Mateo but also had a concussive ability, while Dizzy could float and shoot plasma blasts. Mosh Pit blobbed into a particularly nasty puddle of acid on the ground. Thrash paralyzed.
Marielle pulled out of her thoughts to look back at Austin. What had he said? Right, he’d asked her if she could spare a few minutes.
“Yeah, I can,” she replied.
He smiled at her and gestured with his head to follow him, then led her off to an office located next to her own. The elevator ride up was quiet, but Marielle detected the faintest, pensive smile when she looked at his reflection. He was definitely thinking about something, most likely what he had deduced about her when they had shaken hands.
He pulled the sleeve on his right arm down as the doors dinged open. The walk to the office seemed even quieter than the ride up the elevator. She looked him over from behind as they made their way down the hall. He looked good, she had to give him that. This man knew how to dress, and how to come off as exceptionally attractive and well put-together.
Marielle cleared her throat and broke the strange silence. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Twelve years officially.” He glanced back at her. “You?”
“About the same, actually.”
“I’ve taken a particular interest in you, to be honest,” Austin said once they reached the office and he was seated at his desk.
Marielle felt her cheeks grow a bit warm. “Me? Why me?”
“Well… because I’m pretty sure the radianite enhanced your reading abilities,” he explained, looking her over like she was a piece of hard candy he was waiting to unwrap. “You read people better than anyone I’ve ever heard of.”
Nervously, she twisted a bit of the cloth from her pants in her fingers. He was watching it. “Why do you think that?”
“Why did you purposefully throw my name?” Silence. “Because you knew instinctively that it would piss me off, and you were already annoyed.” She swallowed. “Right?”
She didn’t answer. He leaned back, fingers laced behind his head, and studied her in a way that made her feel like he was imagining her without her clothes on. He let a boyish grin spread across his lips.
“I’ll tell you a secret. We’re really here for you to read me.”
Marielle’s eyes widened, and she tried to quell a smile. She was extremely aware that people who had recently met one another often shared secrets to purposefully gain trust. This guy wanted her to trust him, but she was unsure of his reasons. “What?”
“You have my name, you know about how old I am, you’ve heard my voice and have a hundred words or more of tone examples…. You’re also in my office, which I have personalized in the last few hours.” Another smirk. “Tell me everything you can about me.” There was a pause as he invited her to look, and something about his expression told her that he enjoyed the idea of her looking at him. “Take as long as you need.”
He went silent, but remained in the same position with his hands clasped behind his head. His left knee bounced a little. Nervous? No. He wasn’t nervous; he had complete control of this conversation. The knee bouncing was something else. Her eyes swept over him. Was he serious?
“Yes,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his gleaming teeth. “I’m completely serious.”
She looked around the room, then zeroed in on him.
The photos covering his walls all lacked one distinct thing: him. All of them had red under- and overtones, and many focused on the way the lighting played off of sleek bodies: a straining ballerina, a weight lifter cleaning a heavy barbell.
“You’re vain, which is something you actually consider a plus. You were a photographer for a while, but never picked it up as a job or anything. It’s just something you love to do. You played college football, but not professionally, although you definitely had your fill of parties, drugs, alcohol, and sexual escapades during that time…”
His eyebrows lifted a little when she said this, and she couldn’t help but focus on how intensely blue his eyes were, so intense that for a moment they almost seemed inhuman. She drummed her lip. “You’re single, but you were married until about eight years ago, when…” She narrowed her eyes at him, knowing the answer but a bit hesitant to say it. His expression encouraged her to go on. “When you realized that you were bisexual, and while you were willing to work things out, your wife couldn’t handle it.”
“Nail on the head so far,” he said, beaming like a proud father. “But go deeper. You can do it.”
She stopped for a moment, thinking and observing him closely. This wasn’t obvious to her in any way, but somehow she knew it to be true. “You’re altered.”
Austin grinned and leaned forward. “There you go,” he said, slapping his knee. Then he glanced around. “Only… don’t tell anyone. Shhh.” At this, he raised his hand and opened it. A small bit of frost floated above his hand, creating a small snowstorm that drifted off of his palm.
“What else can you do with that?” she marveled.
He whirled his fingers around, and a long, sharp icicle formed above his hand.
“I can see where that would be useful in combat.” She noted its knife-like shape and his ability to grip it. “No one else knows?”
“Besides my handler? Only you, darling,” he replied with a tilt of his head and a Southern accent that was not his. “Darling” was too intimate a name for him to use for her, but she allowed it for now.
She smiled. “What would you like to be called? If you could be an agent?”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully, pausing for effect even though he already knew. “Tundra.”
Marielle narrowed her eyes at him curiously. “Why the charade?”
“I want to be here. That’s all.” Silence. “Will you keep my secret, Marielle?”
She smiled and gave him an admiring nod. “As long as you promise not to walk the halls singing, ‘The cold never bothered me anyway.’”
He chuckled heartily, then looked at the clock on his wall. “I have to see”—he opened a folder on his desk and quickly scanned it—“Klara soon. We’re done.”
The way he dismissed her almost sounded like he wanted her to leave, even though she knew this wasn’t the case. If she had to guess, his desire was to gain her trust, mystify her, and then leave her wanting more by dismissing her entirely. It worked in a way. She wanted to see him again, but she wanted to see Vincent more.
***
Marielle rushed down to Cellblock Two. Once the elevator dinged, she found herself face-to-face with Sabine. There was a beat of silence as Marielle watched the lines of disdain play across the other woman’s cruel, attractive face. “You got this shift?”
Sabine said nothing; the answer was obvious. She turned and began to walk, and Marielle followed her.
“I can’t let you in the room with him, so we put him in the interrogation room,” Sabine explained. She pointed. “There.”
Marielle spotted the room Sabine had indicated and took a deep breath.
“Something wrong?”
Marielle looked at Sabine, shook her head, and went to the door. Sabine shut her in before presumably going back to watch-dog duty. On the other side was a small space, divided in the middle by a wall of metal bars. Vincent sat on the far side, reading a book which he was holding up in front of his face.
Marielle leaned against the door and watched him for a few moments. He pretended she wasn’t in the room, so she took a moment to look him over, which she understood without words that he was inviting her to do. His ankle was crossed over his knee, and he was reading—she narrowed her eyes—Dracula. He was about halfway through.
For at least two minutes, she stood watching him as he pointedly ignored her, flipping a page with a single lick to the tip of his index finger. Then he ran his other hand through his hair, where bits of it stayed in place, and sniffed. The action was attractive to her, and she found herself looking at him in a way that was less research and more… interest.
She caught herself doing this and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath. He’s not a lover, he’s work, she told herself. Then why did her heart leap at the word “lover” in regards to him?
Marielle cleared her throat. There was no way that he didn’t know she was there, but he still made no attempt to acknowledge her, not even a sneaky one. He turned another page.
There was a single chair against the wall near the bars on the right side, and she went to it and slowly sat down, eyeing him for a moment. Finally, she pulled her gaze away.
“Got your message.”
He turned a page and continued reading without looking at her. “Oh?”
Silence passed between them for long enough that he turned the page again. She rubbed her thighs nervously for a moment, then stopped. “How?”
“How what?”
Her skin tingled with frustration, and now she was unsure of whether it was a bad frustration or a good one. “How was my name in that book?”
He still hadn’t looked at her. “I don’t know. I did not print it.”
“Who did?” He refused to answer for many long moments before Marielle decided to try a different approach. “Dracula, huh?” He turned a page—another lick, another action she was attracted to. “It’s my favorite book.”
Vincent made an expression that confused her. It was almost sad. No, it was sad, as though he were contemplating a distant memory. He slowly lowered the book into his lap, closed it, and—treating it like a priceless jeweled egg—set it aside.
With his back straight and his form still as a statue, he finally met her eyes, which frightened her because she wondered why he was controlling himself so intensely. His gaze made her feel small. She was small, all of five foot two and a hundred pounds dripping wet, but nothing about the way anyone had ever looked at her before had made her feel as small as she did right now.
“How was last night, Marielle?” he asked sincerely.
Her skin prickled, goosebumps rising. “Rough,” she replied. He put curled fingers under his chin. “But I have a feeling that you know that already.”
He nodded once. “I do.”
A pregnant pause. His jaw clenched a little. “How many times did I kill you?”
She swallowed and looked away, averting her gaze. “Twenty-four.”
He looked impressed. “That didn’t take long.”
Another pause, and she felt her skin tighten, knowing what was coming. “How many times did we make love?”
She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Not that I owe you an answer, but… forty-seven.”
Vincent laughed out loud. “Mon Dieu! What were you looking for?”
She rolled her eyes in his direction, bravely meeting his strong gaze again. “You know what I was looking for. Everything.”
He paused, clearing his throat and dropping the hand from his chin. He leaned forward a little. “Oui, I do.” They stared at one another for a moment before he lowered his gaze. “And what did you figure out about me?”
Marielle took in a deep pull of air. “You’re ex-military. You’re somehow untrustworthy and trustworthy at the same time.” She cocked her head to one side as if this baffled her in ways she couldn’t possibly begin to unwind. “You’re an assassin; you like your meat medium rare; you have a taste for expensive cuisine, jewelry, and clothing; you would vacation in a place like Athens or an extravagant penthouse in Las Vegas. You play a classic instrument: the piano or violin, something to that effect.”
Enthralled by how closely he was listening to her, she paused for a second. “You can dance, at least formally. You design weapons and certain kinds of technology—those tattoos have something to do with all of that.” She gestured at the exposed part of his arm. “You were probably known as a nerd in your younger years, but certainly no one would mess with you now.”
“How I wish that were true,” he said under his breath. He met her eyes briefly. “Go on.”
She swallowed hard. “And you’re a widower. She was a bit older than you…” Marielle turned her gaze downward again. “She died sometime in the last four years.”
“Three in November,” he specified, his eyes so intensely focused on her that she thought she’d unravel.
She leaned her head against the wall where the bars married it and looked at him, allowing her dreamy gaze to reveal her feelings. “Can you read me too, Vincent?” she asked in a tone that she immediately wanted to take back. In fact, she wanted to reel the entire question back in like a fish.
“Oui,” he replied.
“Training or… something else?”
Vincent also leaned his head on the wall; they’d almost be touching if not for the bars separating them. “Some training”—a tense pause—“and something else.”
He swallowed, and once again she was drawn to his neck and his Adam’s apple, just like in her scenarios. “What else did you discover?”
She shrugged. “We could talk about it a lot. You have nightmares, but I don’t really know why.” She stopped. “Why are you so interested in knowing what I have found out about you?”
He shrugged. “It will make telling you the rest a little easier.”
She scoffed. “Why would you do that? You don’t trust anyone in this building.”
“Masin—”
“Don’t call me Masin,” she began guardedly. Then she swallowed and whispered, “Yet.”
A knowing smile crept across his mouth. “Yet?” She said nothing. “Mademoiselle, I don’t trust anyone but myself, but… I’d be willing to speak with you.” Her eyes widened a little in interest. “For a price,” he added.
She rolled her eyes. “Knew that was coming. What do you want?”
“I want”—he sat straight again and looked her over—“you to make me some food. Do you know hard it is to get a good meal in here?” She was full-on laughing at this point. “What did you make last night?”
“Uh…” She screwed her eyes up as if trying to recall. “Pasta with cream and garlic, and a side steak, medium rare.”
He looked like he’d about died and gone to heaven, eyes fluttering and rolling back slightly, tugging gently at his bottom lip. The entire movement made her head dizzy. “I would have…” His voice trailed off. Whatever he was about to say, he thought better of it. “And then I want you to eat it with me.”
She chuckled. “Is this a date?”
“Do you want it to be?” He flicked a brow at her, staring through the bars.
Silence passed between them momentarily as she drummed her lip in thought. “What do you want?”
He smirked. “Surprise me.”