“How’s that going, by the way?” I spied a bar trolley and helped myself to the high-end cognac in the decanter. Pouring myself a tumbler, I passed one to Jethro.
He nodded as he accepted and took a sip. “As I said in our conversations, I can’t explain it.” He shrugged. “To start with, I had too many influences over me. But the closer Nila and I grew together, the more I couldn’t deny that I found peace with her. Peace that was so much more effective than any chemical.”
“I’m glad.” I sipped the rich liquor. “Put me out of a job.”
“I heard a rumour you’re being nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize for the drug that stopped that brewing pandemic.”
I scratched my jaw, wishing I could remove my mask but accepting the masquerade ritual. “It wasn’t anything special. We just targeted the virus strain and tested it with already known antibodies, then we mutated it for the current virus. It wasn’t rocket science.”
“To you, perhaps.” Jethro finished his drink, placing the tumbler on a side table. “And I’m fully aware you’ve changed the subject. You forget what I am, Sinclair. I know it’s been an age since we saw each other in person, but I remember how you felt back then, and it’s entirely different to how you feel now.”
If I didn’t know and understand Jethro’s condition, I would eye him with suspicion for such a comment. Only thing was, I’d categorically, scientifically proven that what Jethro sensed wasn’t bullshit but some heightened sense of instinct that not all humans had tapped into.
In his case, he couldn’t switch it off.
“How did I feel back then?” I finished my drink, looking over my shoulder to where music drifted from the ballroom. Was Eleanor safe? I knew Radcliffe would follow her and keep her protected while away from me but I had to admit, I fucking hated being apart from her.
“You were...cold.” Jethro paced by the fireplace. “Analytical. No hint of feeling just...calculations. A brain that overruled any emotion and left you unexcited about anything and pissed off at everything.”
“Sounds about right.”
“But now, you—” He cocked his head, staring at me. “You’re anxious right now because you’re away from her, but when she was beside you—” He chuckled. “You were a horny bastard as well as possessive and protective. You were happy.”
“Having a wife will do that to a man.”
“No, having the perfect wife will do that.” Jethro cleared his throat. “Nila saved me as surely as you saved me in my younger years. You helped deaden me to things I couldn’t control, and she helped me rise above it.” He cleared his throat. “I want to get to know Eleanor, Sullivan. You’ll stay for breakfast tomorrow? Just the four of us?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“And perhaps she can answer my question.”
“What question?”
“The one I asked earlier. How you conned her into falling in love with you.” He laughed as I scowled.
“You really want to know?” I smirked, testing the truth on my tongue. No one outside of Cal and Jess and my loyal staff knew about my purchase of Eleanor. Apart from that Q bastard who’d threatened me the week or so before our wedding, of course.
Something like that should remain a secret, but Jethro had his own, and...I trusted him.
“I bought her.” I kept a careful eye on him. “I bought her, trapped her, and knew instantly that she was mine. Luckily for me, she felt the same way.”
“How quickly did you free her?”
“When my brother came to kill her.”
Jethro’s jaw stiffened, his mask hiding the rest of his expression. “I’m assuming, because Eleanor is still alive, that he failed in that quest?”
“He did.”
He studied me for an unnerving second before nodding. In that one stare, I was almost sure he knew that Drake was dead and that I was glad of it.
“We have lots to catch up on, it seems.” He guided me from the room. “At breakfast, we will have privacy. For now, let me introduce you to a man who I think can deliver some extra toys for your guests on Rapture.”
“Toys?”
“Yachts. A Mr Elder Prest comes highly recommended.”
“You getting into the sailing business yourself, Hawk?” I followed him, past the ballroom and down the corridor.
“Perhaps.”
A tuxedoed gentleman swept from a morning room, almost colliding with us. Jethro went to introduce us, but I guessed this was the man he’d mentioned. He had the impatience of someone wanting to be elsewhere, rather than conversing with potential clients.
Like me.
“Mr Prest, I presume.”
He eyed me, his mask hiding his nationality and features. “You presume correctly. And you are?” His accent was faint but reminded me of a Eurasian girl I’d bought once who lived half her life with her father in Japan and half with her mother in the States—before I’d imprisoned her, of course.