CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

Juliette

T EN MINUTES LATER , my jaw drops open as the limo crosses the arches of the Pont d’Iéna. The Eiffel Tower literally sparkles against the backdrop of a rose-streaked night sky as the limo pulls up to the curb.

“I saw it the other nights, but up close...” My voice trails off as my heart surges in my chest. “I wanted to come here before we left.”

The limo driver opens the door and we step out onto a sidewalk teeming with people. Some are posing for photos with the Tower behind them. Others are kissing or simply ogling the sight of one of the most iconic structures in the world. Between the massive iron legs holding its incredible weight aloft, I can see the green park on the other side dotted with picnickers.

“Is the restaurant off the Champ-de-Mars?” I ask as Gavriil puts a guiding hand to my back.

“Not quite.”

We walk through the crowds to the south pillar. A short set of stairs leads inside.

“Inside the Tower?”

My voice sounds breathless, but I don’t care. I’ve heard of the restaurant, seen the reviews, the mouthwatering photos of gourmet cuisine on Instagram.

“Yes.”

He sounds amused, but when I glance up at him, he’s smiling down at me like he’s pleased with my excitement. I brush aside any self-consciousness as I commit to enjoying the evening ahead of me.

An elevator whisks us up to the restaurant, located on the second floor of the Tower. Our table is right by the window. Boats drift down the Seine. The wings of the Palais de Chaillot on the other side of the river are lit up with golden light. In the distance, I can see the dome of the Basilique du Sacré-C?ur de Montmartre.

A waiter in a dark suit approaches our table and greets us in French as he hands us menus.

“ Bonjour and good evening,” Gavriil replies.

“Good evening and welcome. May I start you off with a glass of wine?”

“Un verre de rosé, s’il vous plait.”

I smile as Gavriil looks at me in surprise before ordering himself a glass of merlot, in French as well.

“Dessie insisted I take a foreign language in high school,” I say in response to his unasked question after the waiter takes our orders for the seven-course tasting. His brows draw together. “I fell in love with French and kept it up in college.”

My phone vibrates in my handbag.

“I’m sorry, do you mind if I check that?”

At his nod, I pull my phone out. Alarm skitters through me.

“It’s Catherine.”

“Go,” he says as he stands, waiting for me to leave before he sits back down.

I walk away from the dining area as I answer.

“Catherine? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” My friend’s voice is practically vibrating with excitement. “I’m sorry, you’re probably out to dinner or something naughty—”

“Cate!” I break in with a laugh as my heart rate steadies. “What’s going on?”

“She’s walking again.”

My vision swims as tears fill my eyes. I blink them back and take in a deep, shuddering breath as relief swamps me.

“Thank God.”

“That’s all. She asked me to call, she was exhausted after physical therapy and went to sleep almost as soon as we got her back to her room. But she’s better, Juliette. She’s getting better every day.”

We say goodbye. I linger in the vestibule for a moment. Dessie’s getting better. We’ll have a follow-up with her doctor when I get back and learn more about what the future may hold. But right now, in this moment, Dessie’s walking. I’m in Paris dining in one of the most incredible restaurants in the world. And, shockingly, I’m enjoying Gavriil Drakos’s company.

That’s enough right now.

I’m not going to question it. I’m simply going to enjoy the evening.

I return to the table. Our wines have been delivered. Gavriil is looking out the window, one hand resting on the stem of his glass, his handsome profile in stark relief against the encroaching night.

My breath catches.

Focus on the moment. Just tonight. Nothing else.

“Everything all right?” he asks as I sit.

I nod. “Just an update on Dessie’s physical therapy.”

The waiter delivers the first course: beets folded over blue cheese and Greek yogurt, sprinkled with cilantro and pumpkin seeds, and served with toasted crackers.

I take my first bite and barely bite back a moan.

“Is this how you eat all the time?” I ask as I force myself to go slow and savor every bite.

“Believe it or not, I like burgers, too,” he replies with a grin. “You said Dessie insisted you take a foreign language. Did you live with her after you disappeared from Rêve Beach?”

Thankfully, I had just slid a cracker into my mouth, giving me a moment to think about how much detail I want to share. He already knows so much about me.

On paper , I think as my chest tightens at how he looked down at me with disgust right before touching me so intimately.

Good enough for a quick fling, but not good enough to spend his money or trusted to keep my end of our bargain.

Stop. I’m not going to let anyone else ruin my evening. He’s playing nice right now. I can do the same.

“When things with my dad went downhill, I moved in with Dessie in Seattle.”

His lips flatten into a line. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug and focus on my food. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.”

I stab a beet with my fork. This isn’t the conversation I want to be having. I want to enjoy my meal, the sight of Paris at twilight, the knowledge that Dessie is doing better.

I look up to tell him just that...

...then falter at the faint glimmer of pain in his eyes. A pain I know all too well.

“Who did you lose?”

He blinks. For a moment I think he’s going to make a joke or dismiss the question.

“My mother.”

I’ve never heard so much conveyed in just two words. Grief, loss, anger, regret. Emotions that take my assumptions about Gavriil Drakos’s childhood and turn them on their head.

“I’m...” My voice trails off and I swallow hard. “You’re right. There are weeks and even months where everything seems fine. And then you see something or smell something or hear something and it takes you right back.”

“What takes you back?”

Don’t.

My heart shouts at me to stop, to keep myself intact. But he’s looking at me now with a different kind of hunger lurking behind his mask. A need to connect with someone who understands. I know deep in my bones this is not something he has revealed to many, if anyone.

“Popcorn.” My eyes burn and I look back down, stirring crumbles of blue cheese around my plate. “When I was little, I would get scared of the storms. I thought the rain and lightning would drag Grey House into the sea.” I pause, giving myself a moment to let the wave of anger and anguish crest, subside. “So Dad would make popcorn. We’d sit in my window seat and watch the storm until it passed like it was a movie.”

His eyes burn into mine. “My father took that from you.”

My throat tightens. “He did. But my father didn’t do himself any favors. His obsession with making it big started him down that road in the first place.”

Gavriil’s lips part slightly as understanding dawns. That it’s not just his father who created my fixation, but the actions of my own, the greed that drove him away from his daughter and the woman who loved him.

Needing to get back on firm ground, I ask, “What takes you back?”

He blinks and looks out over the city. He stares so long at the lights flickering on as night drifts in I wonder if he’s going to answer.

“Scratching.”

I frown. “Scratching?”

“In the walls. On the floor at night.” The twist of his lips is quick, harsh as he glances at me. “Rats.”

The horror of his answer has me reaching for him before I can stop myself. I nearly lay my hand over his when the waiter arrives with our second course. I snatch my fingers back just in time. But it doesn’t stop the physical ache inside me, the hurt for what he must have endured in those lost years before arriving at Lucifer’s villa.

The waiter sets bowls of squash soup topped with green onions and a swirl of coconut milk in front of us. China clinks in the background. Someone laughs. Soft, seductive jazz plays from hidden speakers. Gavriil recovers first, picking up his spoon as he shoots me a casual smile, as if apologizing for sharing something so terrible. I start to reassure him, but he speaks first.

“Tell me more about Dessie.”

Right now I’d tell him almost anything. Anything to take his mind away from the hell of his past.

“Like what?”

“Like why your father’s ex-girlfriend accompanied you down the aisle.”

“She’s a second mother to me. The one constant I’ve had in my life. I wouldn’t be who I am today without her.”

“She loves you.”

There’s a tinge of envy to his voice, an underlying heartache that further cracks the vision I’ve carried of Gavriil for so long—impervious, cavalier, uncaring.

“She does. She gave me a home when I needed it the most. And now I can give her one.”

The jolt is so small I nearly miss it, a flash of tension through his body as his eyes widen.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes.” A slight shake of his head. “I haven’t revisited my past in a long time. It threw me off.”

The first things that come to mind all sound trite, bland words that don’t come close to addressing the bits and pieces he’s revealed.

“I can’t imagine,” I finally say softly.

“Most can’t.”

The salad arrives. I glance down, registering the artful arrangement of asparagus, mushrooms and artichokes on top of a bed of greens glistening with vinaigrette and flecked with Parmesan. How can I eat like this, be surrounded by this kind of luxury, when the man across from me has just shared something I can’t even begin to comprehend?

Gavriil was eight when he went to live with Lucifer. Which means what should have been some of the happiest years of his childhood were spent in hell. A hell that, judging by Gavriil’s borderline hatred of his father, Lucifer continued in his own twisted way.

“Money can corrupt.”

My head snaps up. Gavriil is watching me, his expression languid except for the sharpness in his gaze. His fingers trail up and down the stem of his wineglass.

“It can.” I release a pent-up breath as I reconcile this glimpse into Gavriil’s childhood with his obsession with wealth. “It can also be used for good.”

He nods, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Agreed. Or it can be the one thing that gives back. The only thing.”

My heart cracks.

“What about your brothers?”

His chuckle is a dark, sinister sound that nevertheless rolls through me, stirring the embers left from the morning when I bared myself to him.

“I met Michail at Lucifer’s will-reading. The same day I learned my father had tied all of my hard work to his own obsessive need to control everything, even in death. And Rafe has always preferred his own company.”

If Rafael Drakos was in front of me right now, I would toss my very expensive wine in his face. He’s ten years older than Gavriil, which means he would have been eighteen when Gavriil went to live with Lucifer. More than old enough to take a little brother who’d just lost his mother under his wing. To protect him and give him at least a taste of family.

“Just as bad as Lucifer.”

Gavriil slowly shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. It would be so much easier to hate him if he was. But Rafe is just...cold. Straight down to his icy heart. As much as I sometimes want to punch him, I can only imagine what turned him into what he is.”

He shakes his head then and signals for the waiter. He orders us each a glass of pinot noir before changing the topic to what my favorite exhibit was at the Louvre, then skillfully guiding the conversation to the traveling I did for my job. He does it so well I almost forget the rips in our souls we’ve bared to each other as we eat our way through rosemary risotto topped with beef fillet and shaved truffles. When Gavriil feeds me a bite of chocolate ganache topped with a roasted strawberry, I see the heat in his eyes as my lips part for him.

My body responds to his desire without hesitation. Things have changed between us. The intimacy of sharing so many secrets, of feeling his support and compassion, has built a bridge between us.

I’m now terrified I won’t be able to stop myself from crossing it. Even if it means I leave this marriage divorced and brokenhearted.