Page 238 of Black Reign

“You ordered scones?”

“Fresh.”

“Why?”

He looks at the windows.

Rain streaks the glass.

“Because it's raining.”

I stare at him.

“That's your reasoning?”

“You're French. You're injured. You're in London. I'm giving you tea and scones. Don't make this difficult.”

A laugh escapes me.

This one hurts too.

I cover my mouth.

He gives me a look.

“Sorry.”

“No, you're not.”

“No.”

He brings the tea over.

Places it carefully in front of me.

Then, instead of sitting across from me, he crouches beside the fireplace and lights it.

Within minutes, flames begin licking through the wood.

Warmth spreads into the room.

I watch him.

This man could have ordered someone else to do every single thing he's doing.

Tea.

Fire.

Food.

He has people for everything.

Instead he's doing it himself.

For me.

That frightens me more than the men in the warehouse.