"I thought you didn't eat croissants," Sofia said, staring at her bodyguard as she awaited Linda and Traci.
Pierre received a wide berth from the Starbucks customers, his massive frame standing out even more among normal-sized humans. People stared, women in envy and hunger. Pierre was beyond handsome with his brooding looks, wind-swept blond hair, black clothing, and trench coat. He was lined with weapons she'd watched him emplace earlier. His trench coat was too heavy for her to lift by the time he finished stowing his gear.
"Of course I do. I'm French," he said and swallowed one whole. "You Americans can't get it right, though."
"At least you can eat them."
He winked and swallowed another.
"I think Pierre was right about that sweater," Linda said as she rejoined them. "I'm glad I didn't get it."
"It made you look ten pounds heavier," he reminded her.
"Black isn't supposed to do that."
"It's the material, not the color," he replied.
Traci joined them, coffee in hand, and they merged into the crowded mall. Pierre stayed on her heels, guaranteeing her a wide berth. She was grateful to him. His cell rang, and he answered, eyes always moving.
"Has it been an hour?" she asked. "I forgot my watch."
"Yeah, just about. We can make our way back there," Traci said. She looked healthier and happier than during their last two encounters, and Linda had let it slip that she and Rainy were talking again.
"That pocket is for knives, not your shit," Pierre snapped as Linda dropped another trinket she'd bought into one of his pockets.
"The key is knowing that-if you're not a bad guy-they can't do more than bark at you," Linda confided to Sofia and Traci.
Texting, Traci led them into the jewelry store. Sofia fingered the cell phone and credit card Damian thrust into her hands on her way out the door. He'd not said anything to her since the other night, when he'd almost destroyed the world. She fed from him silently and made every effort to avoid him in the meantime. Just thinking of him made her body heat and her heart flip. She didn't know what she felt toward him. If her Christmas gift was any indication, she thought she might be falling for the brute.
The salesperson recognized her and reappeared with a small box.
"Here is the original," he said, pulling her necklace from a small baggy. "And here is what we've done."
He opened the box to reveal a man's platinum signet ring with the half-moon, half-sun, and arrow symbol neatly carved on its head. Damian was engraved on the interior. She'd seen the image in his home videos. Every White God but him had worn the symbol. It was a sign of his history, of his past, and he regarded it with both yearning and regret. She didn't know if he'd welcome the gift or if his recent ordeal left him more jaded toward his past.