Chapter 15 · Blind Corner

Caspian's blood was on my shoe.

One bright smear across the toe of a four-hundred-dollar pump, and I couldn't look away from it while two of Marcus's security men walked him toward the elevator.

"Get off me— I'm bleeding, you son of a—"

"You put your fist through a glass table," I said. "That's not my problem."

He cranked his head around. Cuffs behind his back, shirt ruined, hair hanging in his eyes. Thirty-six years old, and he still looked like a kid caught stealing from the register.

"Helena. Helena, tell him. Tell him what we—"

"We didn't have anything. Not since I found your assistant's earring in your bed."

Marcus said nothing. He stood with his back to the window, sixty floors of Manhattan burning behind him, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He never raised his voice. He didn't have to. His son got quieter every second he stood there.

The elevator doors shut. The whole floor went still except for the hum of the glass.

"You're shaking," Marcus said.

"I'm cold."

"Then take my jacket."

"I'd rather freeze."

He picked it up anyway and held it out. I didn't take it. He didn't put it down.