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Before I can brace, Truie’s knees slide to the side and then out of my sight, replaced by my folded wool coat. Then the most beautiful gift in the world comes into view as Truie rolls to her back and rests her head on the gray wool like a pillow.

My lips stretch wide, the corners of my mouth lifting into a smile. “Fucking hell, hummingbird. It’s good to see your beautiful face smiling up at me.”

“You scared me.” Her eyes are earnest, her soft smile breaking. “I don’t want to feel that again, okay?”

“I don’t want you to either. Why didn’t you check the tracker? I did that for you, love.”

“That’s how we found you, but I didn’t have a map to overlay. Didn’t know you weren’t where you were supposed to be until Christophe grabbed my phone.”

“And how did you come to be here? I left you safe home for a reason.”

“Mm. You went missing. Winnie…W-winnie confirmed that fact and said your boss was pissed. I called Garrick and told him to come get me.”

When I open my mouth to protest, she cuts me right off. “I told him I knew why they took you. That I have what they want.”

“The file. You took it from Desmond before I pulled you from Alain’s dungeon. How?” My brain is getting hazy.

Truie stares at me, likely watching my lights flicker and fade. She reaches up and drags a finger down the side of my face.

Her thumb caresses my lower lip. “When you wake.”

Chapter 22

Served

TRUIE

I slept on the floor beneath the table where Teague lay. I waited until he was out, fought like my life depended on it, like the very reason for it was staring down at me. Because he was. And when he finally allowed the drugs to take him to his dreams, I went to mine.

Now that I’m awake, my body aches, and fear stacks on top of worries that are beginning to flare. I have something that very bad people are willing to do very bad things for. I knew that when I was locked away, when the men would come down to the cells and talk about it, speculate what it was, and what they would do if they got ahold of it.

I never thought it would be within my reach.

Never thought I’d have the opportunity to grab it.

That I’d have mere seconds to slide the phone from where it was so carelessly left, that I’d have to dig deep to find the will to move despite the pain, the fear, freaking everything my body had endured that day and for many, many before it.

I knew it was important, that it could potentially save my life, and if karma was truly a thing, it could ruin the lives of those who had fucked mine up so badly. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, only that I had to keep it hidden and pray that no one connected me to its disappearance.

To feel a familiarity years later, to recognize Teague’s soul as if I’d known it for half of a lifetime, to fall irrefutably in love with a man I only knew from the shadows of my dreams was not what I anticipated.

As carefully and quietly as I can manage, I roll to my side and push to standing. I barely manage to swallow down the startled screech at seeing Christophe looming in the open doorway.

He stares at the stripes raised across his friend’s back, almost like he’s inventorying each and every one of them to make sure retribution is properly and appropriately served. His intensity has had me on edge since the day of the funerals, but I’ve compartmentalized as much as possible since he saved Winnie. Now though, now his focus seems like maybe it could be a good thing.

I don’t know who to trust with the full weight of my secret. But the bits I gave to Garrick helped to save Teague, and Christophe most definitely looks as though he’s fully prepared to match energy, strike for strike.

When he finally lifts his gaze from the devastation that is Teague’s back and meets my eye, I’ve steeled my spine. He lifts his chin and stalks from the room, knowing I’ll fall in line and follow him. Christophe has things to say.

“Tell me what you know about le livret.” His voice is softer, kinder than I’ve heard toward anyone other than Winnie, but I’m not French enough to speak the language.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I do, mostly, but doing this, completely on my own, is scary.

“The journal, my uncle called it. He had it, wanted it back bad enough to make some very poor choices with my honeybee.”

“Worse than he’d ever done,” a very familiar and very shouldn’t-be-out-of-bed voice says from behind me.

I whip around and am halfway to standing when Teague continues, “Sit, hummingbird. We need to know what we’re dealing with.”