And for that, K will pay the price.
32
KATE
Ilook up and down the Georgetown sidewalk as Nilsson sets his palm to the scanner outside Wolf’s gate. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I say. This is the third time I’ve interrupted his workday—once to bring me back to the main house for my appointment with Dr. Patel, again to help me back across the street so I could sit with Granny for the rest of the afternoon, and now to come home for supper. I feel like a child who can’t be trusted to cross the road without a nanny holding her hand.
“It is my pleasure,” Nilsson says, without a hint of emotion.
“Wolf… er… Mister… um… my husband said you’d get me credentials for the system?”
“There has been a change in plans. I am happy to assist you until Mr. Wolf completes your profile.”
I’ll complete my own feckin’ profile. My fingers itch for my computer keyboard.
Nilsson presses his palm to another keypad, opening thefront door of the house. “Mr. Wolf is waiting in the dining room,” he says.
“I’m not hungry,” I say automatically.
“Mr. Wolf says you should join him, all the same.”
“I’m busy.” I’ve been thinking about Mask’s project all afternoon. I can’t wait to dig up everything I can on NightSaber.
“Mr. Wolf says your work can wait.”
Not once in my life have I followed a direct order, and I’m not about to start now. I jeer at Nilsson, “Do you have a feckin’ comlink jacked into your brain?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Mr. Wolf anticipated how you would reply.”
“And did Wolf anticipate this?” Anger, my old ally, flames across my cheeks as I raise both middle fingers to Nilsson. “Fuck Wolf. And fuck his fucking dinner.”
“Kate.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of my name. I didn’t think Wolf would do his own dirty work. I didn’t anticipate him coming to the foyer.
“Thank you, Nilsson,” he says. “That will be all.”
Once we’re alone, Wolf pins me with those brown-gold eyes. “You can join me under your own power,” he says. “Or I can drag you in against your will. But you’re my wife, and we are going to eat dinner together.”
He’ll do it. He’ll frog-march me into the dining room, or he’ll throw me over his shoulder. I have absolutely no doubt that Cole Wolf will make me sit at his table. So I draw myself up as straight as I can and follow him to the table.
Someone—Anna or Nilsson—has set places for two. They could have put us at opposite ends, like some lord and lady in a stuffy country home. But one plate is at the head of the table, and the other’s to the immediate right. In between, there’s enough cutlery for an army. Glasses too.
“Dinner is always at six,” Wolf says. He gestures to the chair beside his, saying, “Please.”
It sounds like a request, but we both know it’s a direct order. I sit, so I can plan my next attack.
The walls are lined with paintings. Two girls playing a piano, their laughing eyes black in their soft pink faces. A vase of sunflowers, the slashes of yellow-gold paint gleaming like they’re still wet. A row of ballet dancers stretching at the barre, white tutus accented by blue and green ribbons.
I know nothing about art, but I’ve seen these paintings before, or ones very much like them. I’ve read articles. I know each one is worth millions.
I swallow hard as Wolf pours a glass of red wine from a crystal decanter that looks like it also belongs in a castle. Before I can think of anything to say, Anna comes in from the kitchen. She’s carrying a platter—a golden-brown chicken surrounded by roasted potatoes and carrots. A second trip brings a basket of rolls, still fragrant from the oven, along with two plates of salad.
“Can I bring you anything else?” she asks Wolf.
“No thank you,” he says.
My mouth floods with saliva before the door to the kitchen swings closed. Everything looks perfect, like it’s been made for a movie set. It smells incredible.