The first rule of Leander's house was that no one entered his west-wing office.

The second was that dinner happened at eight when he was home.

The third was unwritten.

Everyone watched me.

The guards watched my hands. The house staff watched my face. Mrs. Alvarez watched whether I finished breakfast, which made her the most dangerous of them all.

On my second morning, she placed a plate of eggs in front of me.

"Mr. Cross said you forget to eat."

I set down the newspaper. "Mr. Cross has known me for thirty-six hours."

"He is an efficient man."

"He hired me to smile at parties."

"Then eat. Smiling requires strength."

I obeyed.

Leander left before dawn and returned after midnight. I spent three days learning the house.

Four cameras covered the front approach. Two guards changed shifts every six hours. The panic room had its own air supply. The terrace outside my bedroom connected to a maintenance ledge wide enough for one careful foot.

The west-wing office used a biometric lock.

I tried it twice.

On Friday, Leander came home while I was lying upside down on the library sofa with a book over my face.

"Busy day?" he asked.

"Exhausting. Your first editions are arranged by color."

"They were arranged by author."

I lowered the book. "Not anymore."

He removed his glasses. A red mark crossed the bridge of his nose. "Dinner."

"Is that an invitation or a command?"

"Mrs. Alvarez made lamb."

"A threat, then."

At the table, he asked about my childhood.

I asked about tax fraud.

He cut his lamb into precise pieces. "You dislike personal questions."

"You dislike honest answers."

"Try me."

I took a sip of wine. "I grew up in a group home. I left young. I became very good at a job with limited advancement."

"And now?"

"I file property deeds."

"You quit that job yesterday."

"Then I'm between acts."

His fork paused.

"St. Vincent's," he said.

The glass clicked against my teeth.

I set it down. "What?"

"The group home. It was called St. Vincent's."

The room narrowed.

Mrs. Alvarez entered with vegetables, saw my hand beneath the table, and saw what it held.

I had drawn a steak knife without noticing.

Leander did not move.

"You researched me," I said.

"Thoroughly."

"The contract says companion. Not specimen."

"The contract says you may leave."

He looked toward the foyer.

No guard blocked it.

I set down the knife.

"You keep saying that."

"You keep checking."

His voice held no mockery. That made it worse.

I rose, took the bottle, and went upstairs.

Luca answered my call with music and shouting behind him.

"Tell me you're calling from a yacht."

"Cross knows about St. Vincent's."

The music vanished as Luca moved somewhere quiet.

"How much?"

"The name."

"Rowan, leave."

I stood at the terrace rail. The motorcycle was gone. Snow feathered the lake.

"Not yet."

"That man moves guns through three states."

"Allegedly."

"I supplied the allegations."

I turned the black contract card between my fingers. "Someone followed us from the airport."

"Cross has enemies."

"The rider pointed at me."

Silence.

"You were clean after Prague," Luca said.

"I know."

"Only the client knew your extraction route."

I looked down at Leander's office. Light burned behind the blinds.

"Find out who commissioned Prague."

"You're retired."

"This is administrative."

"You have never done administration with a knife."

I glanced at the blade still in my hand.

"New workplace culture."

The office light went dark.

Leander stepped onto the courtyard below and looked directly up at me.

"I'll call you," I said.

I ended the call.

Leander raised a peppermint between two fingers.

My chest tightened around an old winter.

He placed the candy on the courtyard table and went inside.

I stayed on the terrace until snow covered it.

The next evening, the contract required my first public appearance.

Cross Holdings hosted a museum fundraiser. Leander wore black. I wore a midnight-blue suit selected by someone who knew my measurements better than I did.

"You look expensive," I said as we descended the staircase.

"You are expensive."

"I'm a bargain."

"Not after tailoring."

His hand settled at my lower back. The touch was for the staff, the cameras, the agreement.

My body missed the explanation.

At the museum, Chicago's wealth moved beneath crystal lights. Leander introduced me as Rowan. Nothing else.

No employee. No companion.

Just Rowan.

A woman in silver approached. She was beautiful in the careful way of old money and concealed weapons.

"Leander." She kissed his cheek. "You brought a surprise."

"Celeste, this is Rowan Hale. Rowan, my cousin."

Her smile sharpened. "The archivist."

I looked at Leander.

He watched her.

Celeste touched my sleeve. "You're prettier than the photographs."

"Which photographs?"

Leander removed her hand.

The gesture was quiet.

Possessive.

"The press packet," Celeste said.

There was no press packet.

Across the gallery, a waiter turned his wrist.

A black serpent curled beneath his cuff.

Vipers.

The same mark had appeared on the Prague target's phone.

The waiter reached beneath his jacket.

I pulled Leander into a kiss.

His breath caught. His hand closed around my waist.

The shot struck the marble statue behind us.

Glass burst.

Guests screamed.

I shoved Leander down, seized a champagne bottle, and broke it across the gunman's wrist. The pistol hit the floor.

Leander's guards flooded the room.

The waiter bit down.

Foam touched his lips before I could stop him.

Dead in seconds.

Leander rose slowly. Dust silvered his hair.

His gaze moved from the body to me.

"Municipal archives," he said.

I wiped blood from my knuckles.

"Late fees are brutal."