“What happened to the heretic patrol?”

   He shrugged. “They either left or were dragged away.”

   “Did any of them die?”

   “I don’t know.”

   “Shouldn’t you be a little more concerned?” I demanded.

   “Not really. If they’re dead, Molly gets to keep whatever was in their accounts.”

   He slammed the door, and I didn’t move. I could hardly breathe. A crushing sense of fear began to smother me. Fear that Grant was dead. Fear that I was responsible.

   I turned from Molly’s and began running toward the bakery.

CHAPTER 23

   WHEN I REACHED GRANT’S BUILDING, I TOOK THE STEPS up two at a time, nearly tripping in the process. I pounded on the door and pulled the itchy wig out of my shirt as I waited. When no answer immediately came, I knocked again and gave it a good kick as well.

   He’s not here. He’s lying dead on some street, dragged off by a thief. Or maybe he’s not dead but just too injured to make it home, and it’s all because—

   The door swung open. Grant stood there, holding his shirt. A few dark welts crisscrossed part of his chest, and one side of his face looked a little swollen. The other held a small cut. Otherwise, he seemed okay. He said nothing and simply beckoned me forward, but I saw a glimpse of relief flash through his eyes. After he closed the door, all I could do was stand and stare as I tried to catch my breath.

   “You’re alive,” I finally blurted out.

   “I’m hard to kill.”

   I dropped the wig and removed my dirk. Then I flung myself against him and didn’t realize how tightly I held him until he said, “Ow.”

   I started to move back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t think—”

   “Stop it,” he said, keeping one hand on my hip. “I’m not easy to hurt either. Are you okay?”

   “Yes.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and folded myself into him. All the panic, all the uncertainty . . . everything that had built up within me came bursting out. “I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead. And I couldn’t handle it—I mean, I didn’t know how I’d—and I just—I felt like I would die too—and I—”

   “Easy there,” he said. His nervous body language contradicted the lightness of his tone. He’d gone rigid in my arms and drew back a little. After a moment’s thought, he removed my mask and examined my face. His expression became more troubled as he did, the hand on my hip growing tentative.

   My own hold tightened. I needed to cling to him, half afraid he might disappear again if I didn’t. That fear of losing him had the same effect as when I’d realized how painful the burn on his arm must have been. The same effect as hearing him talk about being a ghost. Some-thing changed in me during those moments of his vulnerability— because he changed too. He stopped being my adversary, my partner in espionage, or even my object of superficial desire. He was just . . . Grant.

   “I’m glad you’re okay,” I said softly. “Because I actually do like you. And I think . . . maybe you like me too.”

   He did. I could see it. And I could also see that it terrified him. Keeping his hand there, barely touching me, took more effort than all that fervor on the floor had. Because when you were a man who was resigned to being unfixed to anything, it was easier to tear off the clothes of a transient lover than it was to simply meet the eyes of someone you might care about. And it was beyond comprehension that that person might care back.

   “It’s fine if you only like me a little,” I added.

   Despite his unease, a smile began creeping over his face. His grip on me grew stronger, steadier. “Only a little, huh?”

   I walked my fingers up his neck and ran them through his hair. “Yes. As little as you want, if it makes you feel better. I don’t want you to throw me out again.”

   “I’ve never thrown you out. You stormed out.”

   “I won’t this time.”

   I raised my chin and parted my lips, the invitation clear. He accepted it. His indecision vanished with that kiss, replaced by an intensity that almost felt desperate. Like maybe he thought he’d lost me too. He lifted me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me to his bedroom. The kissing never broke until we fell onto the bed in a tangle. He rolled me to my back and brought his mouth down again, but I stopped him for a moment, resting my hand against the side of his face so that I could just look at him. I smiled, and he smiled back. And even with my body so spun up and restless, I realized I was just as elated to simply be there with him as I was to finally let desire run its course. I let my hand drop, and as we kissed again, I sensed a similar revelation in him.

   After that, I stopped worrying about whether I was doing everything right. I stopped caring that I still fumbled with clothing while he removed it with such ease. Despite his own eagerness, he took his time and drew out every action in a way that was both glorious and agonizing. He could read my body’s cues, and I learned some of his. I also learned that there was a lot I’d never known about going to bed with someone.

   And when it was over, when we lay side by side in blissful exhaustion, I discovered another gap in my sexual knowledge. What did you do afterward?

   Grant had his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully. I sprawled on my side, half-covered in sheets, as I let myself savor all the different sensations still echoing in my body. I felt lazy and liquid. I felt as though I’d been remade.

   I looked over at him and couldn’t even imagine what he was thinking. He was Grant, after all. But he was so still just then, so at ease for once, instead of constantly fighting his way against the world. I scooted over and rested my head on his chest, cautious of the purpling welts. He’d have bruises for days. He started a little at my movement, but after several moments, he put his arm around my shoulder.