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Shadows cloaked the space due to the only source of light being the soft glow of a bedside lamp.
My mouse lay there, so peaceful in sleep, her chest rising and falling rhythmically.
I thought about the moment after our bath when she gathered up her wet hair and began looping and twisting those soft strands into long braids. Those fingers moved with such grace and precision.
There was something mesmerizing about it, something profoundly intimate in the way she wove her hair into a pattern of undeniable beauty.
I realized then, as I do now, that I could watch her braid her hair for the rest of my life.
I should let my hair grow out. It would be nice to have her fingers in my hair as she did the same sort of braids she did for Paolo.
It was in those quiet moments that my feelings ran even deeper and more all-consuming.
And now my mouse is asleep.
It had been my plan—the rum and marijuana—a concoction potent enough to give her a temporary escape from the agony over Maxwell as well as lull her into a deep sleep.
Sighing, I turned my attention to Boris and Wassily who also stood in our bedroom, stationed like silent sentinels in the shadows of the space.
“I have something else to tell you.” Tisha grabbed my attention. “The Butcher arrived and has been calling all night. My people reported that he has placed pansies near Maxwell’s room and all around the hospital.”
Hmmm.
I shrugged. “Jean-Pierre now knows about the attack. He probably wants to see if we will still do the dinner.”
“And will you?”
“Emily wants to go, so we will attend.”
“Will we attack there?”
“The Butcher is smart, and he is the host of a neutral setting that is intended to bring peace.”
Tisha nodded, immediately understanding. “The French are about reputation. The Butcher will not let anyone get harmed while he is hosting, even our enemies. No one will trust him to host a dinner again, and that sort of thing means a lot to the pansies.”
It gives him power among friends and foes. To lose it would be to possibly make him an enemy.
I leaned against the railing. “I am also not sure how friendly Jean-Pierre is with the Cartels. He knew too much, and too quickly. My mouse trusts the Butcher. I do not.”
Not completely.
Tisha eyed me. “Then, if the Butcher knows that Emily and you are coming, what do you think he will do?”
“Jean-Pierre will never tell us the location of the dinner. He knows what I will do with that information.”
Smart, nosy bastard.
I continued, “In fact, the Butcher will probably send a car to all guests, including us. And before we get in that car, his men will check for weapons.”
Annoyance hit me. “He also is well-versed in the violence that my mouse can bring. Therefore, he probably would not let her even have a tube of lipstick on her before entering the dinner.”
Curiosity replaced the weariness on Tisha’s face. “Can someone actually kill another with lipstick?”
My gaze drifted up to the moon. “Emily’s number one, Blue. She is skilled with putting together unconventional weapons. She is expected to be here soon.”
“But, lipstick?”
“It can be hollowed out and filled with something lethal. A sharp blade, a needle, poison. It can become a weapon, disguised under the guise of vanity. And with Maxwell in the hospital, and my mouse on this. . .dark path. . .” I stiffened in horror. “Even a tiny needle would be a murderous weapon for her.”
