“Who’s Eve?” I ask, referencing the title of the poem.
He shrugs as I pat the wound with saline solution. “No idea. I found it after she died. I liked it so much that I kept it in my wallet for years, and when I became Director, I realized I didn’t have anything to use for my first meeting. Bran once told me he made everything up. Every speech, every meeting. So, when that first meeting was upon me, I did the only thing I knew how. I recited that poem. I included it in the book. No one ever figured it out.”
I laugh, waiting for the wound to dry. “I guess it didn’t really matter what you said. They wanted a place to feel important—a place to feel like they were in on the secret.”
“Exactly.”
“What about the tantric sex? Was it real?”
He laughs. “Who knows. When I first came to meetings, I always wondered, and Bran never told me. The mind is a powerful thing. The couples that were called up always seemed happier afterwards, so it was a win-win for me, I guess, even if it was fake.”
“You never…” I trail off.
“The tantric sex? No.”
I pause, staring at his perfect stomach. “The Ceremonies?”
He sighs, pulling me closer. “A few times. Does that bother you?”Yes.That’s the truth, but having been in that room when others all around you are having sex, I can only imagine how someone like Benedict, so virile and healthy and sexy, couldn’tnotpartake.
I squeeze my legs together. “It doesn’t bother me. I’m certainly not one to talk when it comes to experience,” I mutter, trying to laugh off the unease when I think about how many men had used me.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing the hair off my face. “What happened to you wasn’t the same. I know the truth, okay? It’s not experience you have, my Evelyn. And I hope to wipe away the nightmares with my love. Do you understand?”
I blink at him, my eyes watering. “Yes. I understand.” Clearing my throat, I change the subject. “Are you glad to be done?” I ask. I apply antibiotic ointment to the wound, quickly covering it with fresh gauze, and adding some medical tape to two sides in order to secure it.
He drops his shirt and smiles at me. “Very. And thank you for helping me.”
I pull the gloves off and discard them onto the floor. Here, before him… it feels right. He bends down slightly, wincing, as he brushes my hair.
“I’ll do your hands later if you want,” I reply, nodding my head to the bandages there. “I wish I could make you feel better, but I fear if we leave Hayes and Zoey alone for too long, they’ll kill each other,” I joke.
Benedict chuckles. “I worry he’s going to be a bad influence on her.”
I stand, helping him up as his face twists in pain.
“I worry more about Hayes. Zoey has been on her own for a long time. She’s got some street cred. I’m not convinced she’s never killed a person.”
“I believe it,” he concedes, taking my hand as we walk out to the living room.
The scene before me makes me laugh. “Jeez,” I utter, strolling over to where Zoey is seated, purposefully facing away from Hayes—who is leaning against the window—breathing heavily and glaring at her, like they were just arguing. “Can you at leasttryto get along?” I plead, taking her hands.
“Not with that wanker,” she whispers to me. When I look at Benedict, he’s smirking.
“You okay?” Benedict asks Hayes.
Hayes turns and glares at Zoey briefly before shrugging. What the hell happened when we were in the bedroom?
“Yeah man. You?”
Benedict’s phone rings; the sound cutting through the awkward, tense silence. He wanders over to where it’s sitting on the kitchen island. His eyes narrow when he looks at the number. His fingers drum against the white marble countertop for a few seconds.
“Who is it?” I ask, walking over.
“Fleury-Mérogis Prison.” His voice sounds a bit bewildered, and he shakes his head before tapping the green button and lifting it up to his ear. “Bonjour? Oui, c’est lui.” He pauses while the other person speaks. “Je vois. Comment?” I clench and unclench my fists. “D’accord. Merci de me l’avoir dit.” He lowers his phone before ending the call, looking like he’s in a daze.
“What did they want?” I ask, trying to keep the hatred out of my voice.
“He’s dead,” Benedict says simply. “Auguste—my father—is dead.”
