❝𝒎𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒊𝒑𝒆𝒊𝒔.❞
(you're missing from me.)
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𝒃𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔
Iva Laurent lost her parents when she was eight. Sold to the black market by her only relative left on this earth, she was l...
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LONDON January Location: Restaurant, Galvin La Chapelle
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"Iva?" Jax called my name in a low voice, surprised by my sudden reaction.
"Isaiah Gaillard?" I gasped, hastily wiping the smudge off my face using the napkin and claimed, "He's human, Jax!"
"Hmm?" I felt a sudden chill down my spine when the pair of greyish-blue eyes ahead of me fixed into mine with an almost interrogating gaze. Jax's tone turned cold in an instant, "He isn't my target, though you just made the whole situation interesting."
His hand reached out to hold onto the neck of the wine glass ahead of him and I caught him by the wrist. Gripping hard, I pressed, "Who is your target, partner?"
"Pelleas Marston," he responded quietly and my eyes widened at the name, recalling the name that the cacs had mentioned on that night when Vivienne and I went out partying back in Shanghai. I adjusted my gaze a little to look towards Jax and his expression remained indecipherable and indifferent.
Yet, beneath the collected composure he displayed, I noticed the crack on the neck of the wine glass under the pressure of his grip. Small shards cut through the skin of his fingers with red prickling from the wounds and I panicked. My hand quickly caught the falling glass and poured the contents into the bucket of ice before settling it down on the table carefully, making sure that we caught no attention. I hurriedly grabbed onto a linen napkin on the table and folded it as I pushed it into his palm and curled his fingers in, adding pressure to control the blood flow. Rising from my seat, I tugged on his arm and feigned a warm smile, "Let's dance, shall we?"
Jax had followed without saying anything in return and unease began to clench my gut. It was only until now that I realised how much I hated not being able to read this man, his concealed thoughts and emotions weighed in my heart. The touch of his hand on the small of my back had felt uncomfortably cold when he refused to say a word.
We moved from our table towards the wide dancing area in the middle of the restaurant. Couples around us leaned close to each other, swaying slightly to the soft sounds of the grand piano as they whispered sweet nothings to each other. I held his injured hand close to my chest and stepped close towards him in an attempt to blend in with the surroundings. He didn't even wince when I tightened my grip and pressed the napkin into his palm. In a harsh whisper, I scolded, "What were you trying to do?"
Again, there was no response to my question. He only firmed his hold on my back and pulled me closer to him, erasing any space between our bodies. The back of his hand which I was holding onto had rested embarrassingly on my cleavage and I nearly slapped him out of panic — if not for my professionalism and a keen awareness that I'm currently in the midst of a mission holding me back.
