Page 150 of Dark Night of the Soul

Then he said, flatly, “I’m coming with you.”

“It’s okay. I can—”

“I said I’m coming with you.” He rose from the table, the dismantled weapon forgotten. But I didn’t miss he grabbed another smaller handgun and put it at the small of his back.

I sighed. “But I—”

“This is not a debate.”

It wasn’t about not trusting me. I knew that wasn’t it. It was about letting me walk around, alone, in a strange city with a target painted on my back.

Or head, in this instance.

“Fine,” I said, yielding.

Ten minutes later, we were walking down the street. Munich was quieter than Istanbul. Cleaner lines, less chaos, but no less watchful. Me on the inside. Him on the outside. He scanned every face, every inch of sidewalk like we were heading into a war zone instead of a pharmacy. Like buying stuff I needed required a combat formation.

I watched him. The utter control. The stiff demeanor. The way his sharp eyes took in everything and everyone.

This was not like Istanbul, when we’d walked down the street and ended up at a café. Then, he’d been relaxed. Calm. Casual.

This was different. Edgier.

“You know,” I said, “most guys don’t provide armed escort for necessity runs.”

“I’m not most guys.”

That was the understatement of the decade.

When we got to the store, I managed to edge him behind me so I could enter first. He didn’t argue. He fell in step behind me.

I grabbed a hand basket in case the impulse aisle was enticing.

Since the signs were in German, it took me several minutes of walking up and down the aisles to find what I wanted. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Tinny pop music played from hidden speakers. He kept pace, a silent shadow overqualified for pharmacy duty.

I snagged a few things I didn’t need. A box of crackers. A bar of solid chocolate. Cookies. Junk food. I missed junk food.

And then I found it.

An entire wall of boxed hair color devoted to identity crises and bad decisions.

I stopped. He stopped behind me. Silent. Waiting.

“This?” he asked. “Why?”

I lifted a shoulder. “Because I glow in the dark.” I pointed to my head. “White hair isn’t… subtle.”

His gaze slid over me in that slow, assessing way that always made my skin feel too tight.

“This is because of what Ludwig said.”

“No,” I corrected. “I don’t want to stick out. Besides, I was already thinking about it before he so helpfully pointed it out.”

He said nothing, as if accepting my explanation.

Rare.

I pretended to study the options, but I already knew what I wanted. Black. Because that was me. My gaze landed on the one closest to my natural shade—but I couldn’t read the box because German.