Chapter 112
Evelyn's POV
Julian's car smelled like leather and gunpowder and something distinctly him—woodsmoke and expensive cologne and the faint metallic tang that clung to men who lived with violence.
I sat in the passenger seat, still wrapped in his jacket, my damp hair leaving wet marks on the headrest as he navigated through the marina's parking lot with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd made quick exits from worse situations.
"Here." He reached behind my seat without taking his eyes off the road, emerging with a neatly folded men's dress shirt and slacks. "Change. Can't have you catching pneumonia before we figure out who's trying to frame Adrian."
I looked at the clothes, then at him. His own shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, the damp fabric outlining every line of muscle underneath in a way that made my throat tight. "What about you?"
"I run hot," he said, one hand on the wheel as he pulled onto the street. "This'll be dry in twenty minutes. You, on the other hand..." His gaze flicked to where I sat shivering despite his jacket. "You're half my size and you just spent ten minutes in forty-degree water. So change, sweetheart. That's not a request."
There was something almost gentle in his tone despite the command, and I found myself obeying without the usual instinct to push back. My fingers were clumsy with cold as I unbuttoned the wet dress, hyperaware of Julian's presence beside me even though he kept his eyes firmly on the road.
"The shirt should fit," he said as I shrugged into it, the fabric warm from being stored in the car's heated interior. "The pants..." He glanced over, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "Well, we'll see."
I pulled on the slacks, but even with the belt cinched as tight as it would go, they hung low on my hips and threatened to slide down with every movement. After a few futile attempts to make them work, I gave up and pulled them off, letting them pool on the floor of the car.
"Pants didn't make it?" Julian's voice held amusement now, the tension from earlier finally starting to ease.
"Too big." I settled back into the seat, the shirt falling to mid-thigh. "I'll manage."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been something else. "You certainly will. Though you won't need to manage for long—I have clothes in your size at my place."
I raised an eyebrow, looking at him sharply. "I never said I was going to your place before today."
"No," Julian agreed, his expression perfectly neutral as he navigated through traffic. "You didn't."
"So how exactly do you have clothes in my size waiting there?"
"Had Webb arrange it. Just now."
I studied his profile, noting the way his jaw was set, the faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Funny. I didn't see you make any calls. Didn't see you text anyone either."
Julian's smile widened slightly, though he kept his eyes on the road. "Webb and I are fraternal twins," he said, his tone absolutely deadpan. "We have a psychic connection. Very useful in my line of work."
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the residual fear, the cold still seeping into my bones—I found myself laughing. It started as a small sound, almost surprised, then grew into something genuine that loosened the tight knot in my chest.
Julian glanced at me, his expression softening in a way that made my breath catch.
I shook my head, still smiling, and settled back into the seat. I didn't push further. Whatever web of preparation Julian had spun—whether he'd actually had Webb arrange clothes in the last twenty minutes through some prearranged signal, or whether he'd been stocking his apartment with things in my size for weeks now—I found I didn't particularly care.
The truth was, I was grateful. Grateful to have somewhere to go that wasn't my empty apartment or a sterile hotel room. Grateful for someone who anticipated my needs before I voiced them, even if his methods were questionable at best.
Grateful, most of all, that I didn't have to be alone tonight.
The drive to his place in Tribeca took less than fifteen minutes, the late hour meaning sparse traffic even for Manhattan.
We pulled into the underground garage of his building, the space empty except for a handful of high-end vehicles positioned with military precision. Julian came around to open my door, his hand steady at my elbow as I stood on legs that still felt unsteady.
The elevator ride to his penthouse was quiet, the silence between us comfortable in a way that felt new. I'd never been to Julian's home before—had investigated his files, tracked his movements, catalogued his vulnerabilities with a killer's clinical detachment. But I'd never been here like this, standing beside him in borrowed clothes with my feet bare and my defenses finally, terrifyingly down.
The elevator doors opened directly into his apartment, and I followed him inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. He'd left a single lamp on in the living room, casting long shadows across the industrial-chic space. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, Manhattan's lights stretching out like scattered diamonds against black velvet.
And then something small and ginger materialized from the shadows, weaving between Julian's legs with a purr like a small engine.
I stopped dead. "You have a cat."
"Don't sound so shocked." Julian bent to scratch behind the cat's ears, his movements gentle in a way that seemed at odds with everything I knew about him. "This is Ghost."
The cat—a sleek ginger tabby with white paws and intelligent green eyes—regarded me with the wariness of a creature that had learned not to trust easily. She took one look at me, her ears flattening slightly, and then bolted, disappearing around the corner with a flash of orange tail.
I couldn't help but smile. "Not a fan of strangers?"
"She'll warm up," Julian said, straightening. "Took her three months to stop hiding under the bed when Webb came over. You just have to be patient with her."
"How long have you had her?"
"Three years. Found her in Kabul, half-starved and fighting off rats twice her size." He moved toward the kitchen, his damp shirt clinging to his back. "She clawed the shit out of my hand when I tried to pick her up, tried to bite me when I got her to the vet. But once she realized I wasn't going anywhere..."
He glanced back at me, something unreadable in his expression. "She never left. That's the thing about cats—they're patient hunters. They can wait hours, days even, for exactly the right moment to strike. And once they decide you're theirs..." He paused. "They're loyal as hell. Clingy, even. You can't get rid of them no matter how hard you try."
The way he said it, the way he was looking at me, made it clear we weren't just talking about Ghost anymore.
"Sounds like someone I know," I said softly.