Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(60)

But I know I am lying to myself. I would not have stolen a thing from her. I am no thief by choice, and especially when someone has shown me kindness, even if they did it because they pitied me.

“Okay,” I whisper, ducking my head so she can’t see my inflamed face. Out of everything, this is the worst feeling, the feeling I have just reminded her that I am a wretch and not a hero.

“It’s unnecessary for you to take this food,” she begins, “because there will be plenty where we are going.”

“Madame?” I look up at her, bewildered. Fear cuts through me as I did the man last night. She is taking me to the authorities. Back to Paul.

She smiles at me with warmth I feel is genuine. “Where we are going,” she says, “is to London, where I live with my husband, Noble, and my daughter, Elin. She is maybe a year or two older than you, sixteen. Would you like that, Nena?”

There is warmth in her voice and a want that nearly brings me to tears. “Would you come home with me and be a part of my family, as my daughter?” she asks.

Her words have rendered me speechless. Quite senseless, to be exact. I wait for clues alerting me that she is being dishonest. I wait for my instincts to urge me to run for my life because she means me harm. But they tell me she is being sincere. I already know I am safe with her and that she needs my acceptance, as she has accepted me. With that new knowledge, I answer, more assuredly than I have ever before. “Yes, Madame. I think I would like to. Very much so.”





45


AFTER


Spotlights lit up the nightclub, and lines entering the double doors wrapped around the building. Hopeful patrons had decked themselves out in their Saturday best. Nena was dressed for the occasion in a short leather skirt and black fitted bodice that showed more skin than she was accustomed to. She wore one of her favorite wigs, the black bob with burgundy-tipped ends. According to Witt’s intel, the club was where Kwabena would be most vulnerable, where she could most easily separate him from his people.

She joined a raucous group of women already toasted from a night of bachelorette partying as they entered the club so she wouldn’t have to wait in the seemingly endless line. The place was packed with writhing bodies that took up the expanse of the wide room, its bright electric colors and fog machine adding to the promise of a fun-filled night. She reminded herself she was supposed to be in character. So she let the rhythmic bass drown out all the noise in her mind, and before she knew it, her shoulders began to jiggle, and she allowed herself to get lost in the thumping and bumping of the song.

“Dance?” asked some random guy with a complexion as creamy as the suit he wore, no shirt. He held out a hand, wiggling his fingers for her to take. She cast him a sidelong glance, swaying her hips as she moved away. She smirked when he clutched his chest as if she’d broken his heart. She moved through the crowds in sync to “Daddy Yo” by Wizkid.

The VIP section was in the middle of the club for the most prominent view. It was a raised white circular platform, like a crown in the center of the dance floor. All the non-VIPs danced around it, hoping they’d be chosen to join the elite. She waltzed right through them all.

She spied him, Kwabena-now-Kamil, and her directive returned as she danced in front of the platform, refusing any other person who tried to dance with her. She was performing for a party of one, hoping she’d catch his attention. She would, because what drew a man to a woman the most was when she seemed untouchable.



“May I?” a voice from behind asked above the din of the music. She accepted, moving in time with the music and with him. She didn’t let him get too close. She thwarted and teased his attempts to hold her waist. She kept just out of reach, wanted to make him yearn for her, be enthralled by her.

When she tried to drift away, he grabbed her hand. “What’s your name?”

The grab was electrifying, driving her to that moment with dirt and rocks digging in her back while Kwabena hovered above her, causing her to feel more pain than she’d ever imagined. The taste of his foul breath in the back of her throat while her mind was going, going, gone.

She could take him down right here. Her push daggers were in her belt. There was enough crowd to conceal her act. But that would mean too quick a death, like Attah Walrus. She reflexively snatched her hand away and saw him shrink back at her sudden hostility. But wasn’t this why she was here? To draw him out?

You need to cool it. She forced herself to play at being coy, to reel him back in, make him follow her.

“Hey!” he called out. She ignored him, moving farther away.

He called after her again.

She paused for a group of club goers to pass. As she did, he caught up, jogging over to her, slightly out of breath.

She said, with faux surprise, “You’re following me?”

His smile was not unpleasant, but she’d love to scratch it off him. “How could I not? You took my breath away in there,” he panted.

Easily, she maneuvered toward the door. “A good thing.”

“I don’t normally chase women.”

She smirked. “And yet . . .” Easy. Not too much.

Her Dispatch training included ways to engage people romantically, but her best teacher was Elin, and Nena tried to channel her now.

She bit her bottom lip, showing a bit of teeth. She looked at him, taller by a foot or so, through her eyelashes. He was nothing but arms, legs, and a rounded little potbelly. They were at the doors now. “What do you want from me?” she asked.