“But it’s true, too,” I said. “If I’d thought it through, given what he’d done … I might not have.”

“Good. That’s what I want to hear. However, it’s not entirely true, because in the moment that you took to decide whether to give chase, you would have realized you wanted him alive for questioning and taken the risk for that reason. If you really did only want to save Ciro out of the goodness of your heart? I could not comprehend that.”

He took another, longer drink and then said, “You asked what I feel. The answer is nothing. That is, I hurry to qualify, on this particular topic. The face that I present is not a false face, but I am capable of emotion.”

“I know.”

He nodded, not looking over. “The truth is that, in the matter of the lamiae, when I said that I wanted to get them into Cainsville so they’d be out of our way, that wasn’t me putting a logical slant on the matter. That is me. It’s what I feel. Or do not feel, as the case may be.”

Another sip of the Scotch, his gaze still on the window. “People wonder how I represent the clients I do. Do I not feel empathy for the victims and their families? No, I don’t. I think about them, though. I think that their loss is a tragedy, and I think of how their lives were affected, and I think that what happened to them was unfair. But the world does not promise fair, and if my client is indeed guilty, then let the court decide that. Perhaps the greater sin is that I realize I feel nothing for strangers, and I still do not care.”

I was formulating an answer, desperately searching for the right words, when he downed the rest of his glass in a single gulp, shut his eyes for a moment, and then opened them and said, still facing forward, “Does that bother you?”

“Hmm?”

He looked my way, yet not directly at me. “Does it bother you that I cannot look at those lamiae and take pity?”

“I have spent enough time with you, Gabriel, to understand what you are and what you aren’t, and if I had a problem with that, you’d know it.”

It seemed an honest and positive answer, but his gaze slid away, and he lifted the empty glass to his lips, and when he realized it was empty and I said, “More?” he shook his head, but there was a hesitation there.

“I’m having more,” I said, and poured myself a finger and took the bottle over to him, and he didn’t hesitate to lift his glass.

When I sat again, he said, “My lack of caring doesn’t apply to you. I hope you understand that.”

“I know.” I pulled my knees up as I turned to face him. “For me, it’s a stretch to feel what others do naturally. Like with Ciro. I wanted to stop the hound from killing him, but then I was back here, joking around, and I had to stop and think, ‘Oh, right, I watched a guy die tonight.’ So I do understand, and I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear.”

“It was.” He sipped at his drink. “But you said you understand what I am not. You accept it.” His gaze lifted to mine. “You don’t need to accept it.” He lowered the glass. “I don’t mean the lack of altruism. That won’t change. But there are other things you don’t have to accept. You don’t need to apologize for asking me how I felt earlier. You don’t need to avoid displaying emotional pain around me. Yes, I am uncomfortable with that. Yes, when you do it, I have the urge to run, as fast as I can. But not because I don’t want to help. Because I don’t know how.” His eyes widened, and he murmured a rare curse. “And with that, I have definitely had too much to drink. I’m sorry. I don’t—”

“It’s okay.”

“I just—”

“Gabriel?” I leaned toward him. “It’s okay. I know you don’t like to admit anything like that.” I lowered my voice to a mock whisper. “But it’s not inappropriate, and I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

He hesitated. Then he snorted a laugh. “Yes. Sorry.” He sipped the Scotch. “What I’m saying is that I know sometimes you feel you’re walking on eggshells with me. I’ve made you feel that way. But that is my inexperience with a relationship that is neither familial nor business in nature. I make mistakes.” Another quick drink. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I just want to say that you can expect better. I am past the point where I’m going to bolt and slam the door behind me.” He glanced around. “Which is good, considering it’s my apartment.”

“Mmm, no. If you bolt, I get the condo. That’s the deal.”

A faint smile. “Is it?”

“Yep. You need stakes. Run away from me and you lose your apartment.”

He glanced my way. “I don’t need stakes to stop me from doing that. Losing you would be—” He stopped, horror filling his eyes, and he drained the rest of the glass as fast as he could.

“The floor is not comfortable.”

“What?” he said, looking up sharply.

“I’m changing the subject before you really do bolt. Because, as much as I love your apartment, I’d rather keep you.” I lifted my glass. “And thus ends our drunken sentimental exchange. So, the floor …”

“… is uncomfortable, and I would agree. I would also agree that I require comfortable permanent seating to take full advantage of the window view. Which I did intend to buy. I never got as far as walking into a furniture store. Once I was moved in, new furniture seemed …”