Page 50 of Shadow Secrets
Give him time. He’s been on alert for days. That kind of vigilance didn’t switch off in an afternoon.
She channeled her disappointment into cleaning. The dishes came first. She ran hot water and scrubbed the coffee mug until the biology inside it surrendered. She let the rest of the dishes soak while she wiped down the counter with the lemon-scented spray she’d bought on sale three months ago and had been rationing ever since.
The kitchen was restored to something like order within twenty minutes, and she felt better. The act of reclaiming her space, of asserting her presence after the past days of sterile compound rooms and someone else’s soap, was empowering.
The entire time, Sebastian stayed at the window.
“I’m going to go grab my mail,” she said. “And some milk and bread at the corner store.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Or I could go by myself. Two minutes, there and back.”
He turned, his blue eyes shadowed in a way she didn’t like. “Sutton.”
“Fine.” She grabbed her keys, annoyed in a way she couldn’t quite justify. “Let’s go.”
Mr. Han at the convenience store was relieved to see her. He told her through the bulletproof glass at the register that he’d heard about the shooting at Iron Rose on the news. He’d been worried about her.
She bought the milk and bread and accepted his concern with a smile. When she came out onto the sidewalk, Sebastian was positioned where he could see the corner store’s entire front, the entrance to her apartment building down the block, and the alley mouth.
She didn’t say anything about it.
Back home, she put the milk away and made the bed. She gathered the clothes draped over the back of the chair to hang in the small closet. She tossed out the two dead succulents, making a mental note to replace them. The thrift-store quilt got shaken out and folded.
Sebastian checked the front window. Then the window facing the alley. Then the hallway through the peephole. He hadn’t sat down since they’d arrived.
“Wine?” she asked.
“Not while I’m on—” He checked himself before he finished that sentence. “I’m fine.”
She poured herself a glass and carried it to the window. The setting sun was casting long shadows over the street. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, you’ve been weird since we pulled into the parking lot, and I’ve been giving you space because I figured you needed to decompress, but it’s been an hour, and you’re still doing the perimeter thing in my four-hundred-square-foot apartment. What’s going on?”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“So you always stand at windows and refuse to make eye contact with the woman you’ve been sleeping with.” She kept her voice level. Barely. “My mistake.”
His jaw flexed. He still didn’t look at her.
“Sebastian.”
Nothing.
“Lynx.”
He finally met her eyes. His face was the one she’d seen in the hospital corridor—the armored one, the version of him he wore when he didn’t want anyone to see what was underneath.
She set down her wine. “Are you unhappy that the protective mandate is over? That I don’t need a bodyguard anymore?”
“I’m glad you’re safe.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He flexed his hand at his side. His chest expanded on a slow inhale. “The media is going to find out you were the woman at the hospital with me,” he said. “Are you prepared for that fallout?”
