I grabbed my jacket from the coatrack, flung an “I’ll be back” over my shoulder, then dived out the door. I didn’t wait for the elevator but took the stairs two at a time, slowing only when I neared the ground floor.
It was him.
He was leaning a shoulder against the wall of the building, staring off down the street. His sharp features were drawn, as if he’d been getting as little sleep as I had, and there were shadows under his eyes.
I slowed as my foot hit the foyer floor, wanting to drink in the sight of him just a bit longer, enjoy the feeling of him flowing through my mind. But he sensed my presence and looked my way.
Those dark eyes caught mine so easily, and yet they were completely neutral—showing nothing, revealing nothing. I stopped, suddenly unsure whether I really should open that door.
What if he wasn’t here to tell me he missed me?
What if he was simply here to sort out something relating to Hannish and the Jamieson king?
My stomach suddenly twisted. God, what if he was here to drag me in front of the council?
I took a step back, then stopped.
This was stupid. I was braver than this. I’d proved that time and again.
“What do you want, Damon?”
“I didn’t come here to talk to you through a glass security door, Mercy. Either let me in, or come out.”
“Why should I come out? You left.” My voice broke a little, but I sucked it up and added, “What more is there to discuss?”
“Plenty.” He paused, and a sweet, almost tentative smile teased the corners of his mouth. “I’ve arranged for chocolate cake …”
Despite my fears, I couldn’t help feeling a glimmer of amusement. He’d remembered. That had to be good, right? “I don’t see any chocolate cake.”
“It’s waiting in the restaurant down the street.”
“And why would it be waiting there?”
“Because I thought you were more likely to talk to me on neutral ground.” He paused again, and I swear fear flashed through the dark depths of his eyes. It made that small sliver of hope that had been with me since he’d left burst into a bonfire. “Please, Mercy. Come out and talk to me.”
“You have precisely twenty minutes,” I said, knowing even as I said it that he could have the rest of my life if only he said the right words. “I have guests waiting upstairs.”
I opened the door then grabbed the loose edges of my jacket and wrapped them around me—more to keep from reaching for him than any real need to keep out the cold.
But I couldn’t help drawing in the scent of him, letting the richness of it flow through my lungs, filling and warming me.
“This way,” he said, raising his hand to guide me, then dropping it before he actually touched my back.
We walked down the street like two strangers, and yet every time he moved, every time he breathed, I was aware of it.
He opened the restaurant door and ushered me through, once again careful not to touch me, then guided me over to a table in the corner. The place was small, homey, and packed. Our table was the only empty one.
A waiter came up immediately, depositing two coffees and a large serving of chocolate cake before removing the “reserved” sign and walking away.
I wrapped my fingers around the cup and drew it close, but I didn’t dare pick it up. My hands were still shaking too much.
“So,” I said finally, meeting his dark gaze. “What do you want to talk about?”
“How about my stupidity?”
“A good place to start,” I acknowledged, desperately battling the urge to smile. He didn’t deserve that yet. After a month of heartache, he owed me the full explanation. And perhaps a bit of groveling. “What particular area of your stupidity do you wish to discuss?”
“The part where I said muertes can’t get involved.”