Chapter 258. The Night in the Garden

The autumn chill had teeth, but the townhouse’s walled garden fought back with borrowed warmth. A dozen Moroccan-style lanterns, their patterns casting intricate, dancing shadows, hung from the skeletal branches of the old pear tree and lined the brick pathways. A hidden outdoor heater hummed softly, pushing back the encroaching cold, creating a pocket of golden defiance against the dark, clear sky. A single, low speaker by the French doors spilled out the slow, mournful saxophone of a jazz standard, the notes hanging in the air like smoke.

It was Sabatine’s doing. A whim, she’d called it, after a day spent neck-deep in firewall architecture and threat assessments. “I need to see something that isn’t a line of code or a security feed,” she’d declared, and had proceeded to raid the attic for the lanterns, stringing them up with a soldier’s efficiency. The result was a haven, a secret world woven from light and shadow in the heart of London.

Anton stood by the doors, a crystal tumbler of amber whisky cradled in his hand, watching her. She was wrapped in a thick, charcoal blanket over her sweater, her face tilted up to the night sky, tracing the faint smudge of the Milky Way visible beyond the city’s glow. In the lantern light, the sharp, watchful lines of her face softened. She looked young, and for a moment, unburdened.

“It’s good,” he said, stepping onto the patio stones. “The garden. It feels like a different country.”

She smiled without looking at him. “A neutral one. No corporate espionage allowed past the rosemary bush.”

He moved to stand beside her, following her gaze upward. The music shifted to another track, something slower, a piano melody like falling leaves. The silence between them was easy, filled with the shared, quiet victory of an ordinary day surviving in their extraordinary lives.

“Dance with me,” he said. The words were out before he could consider them, a soft, impulsive command.

Sabatine turned her head, an eyebrow arched. “Here?”

“Why not?The floor’s a bit uneven, but the company is unparalleled.”

A slow smile spread across her face.“I have two left feet. I was trained for tactical manoeuvres, not foxtrots.”

“Good,” he murmured, setting his glass down on a nearby stone ledge. “Then I won’t be embarrassed when I step on yours.” He held out his hand.

She looked at his outstretched palm, then back at his face, the smile lingering in her eyes. With a sigh of mock exasperation, she shrugged off the blanket, letting it pool on the bench behind her. She took his hand.

He drew her into the centre of the small, lantern-lit lawn, the grass crisp with frost underfoot. There was no formal stance. He simply drew her close, one hand finding hers, the other settling, warm and sure, at the dip of her waist. She settled her free hand lightly on his shoulder, her body aligning with his with a natural, instinctive fit that still sent a jolt through him.

They began to move. It wasn’t a dance, not really. It was a gentle sway, a shared rhythm found in the whisper of the wind and the distant thrum of the city. The piano notes wrapped around them, a private soundtrack. Anton’s thumb stroked the sensitive skin at her side, feeling the ridge of scar tissue beneath the soft wool of her sweater—a permanent record of Geneva, of her choice.

He remembered the first time he’d touched her there, in the sterile light of a hospital room, his fingers trembling over bandages. Now, the touch was one of possession, of gratitude, of a deep, aching familiarity. His hands lingered, mapping the territory of her, committing the feel of her to memory as if this slow turn under the lanterns was the most vital intelligence he’d ever gathered.

Sabatine rested her head against his chest, her ear over his heart. She could feel its steady, strong beat against her cheek. In this silent, swaying communion, the world narrowed to the circle of light, the scent of his cologne mingled with night air, the solid warmth of him against her.

“This is nice,” she murmured into his shirt.

“A master of understatement,as always,” he replied, his voice a soft rumble in his chest.

She pinched his shoulder lightly. “I’m trying to be romantic. Don’t ruin it.”

He laughed quietly,the sound vibrating through her. He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her infinitesimally closer. “I wouldn’t dare.”

They swayed through the end of the song and into the next, another slow, yearning piece. The cold was banished by their shared warmth. Anton leaned his cheek against her hair, breathing her in. Here, in this shadow-dappled garden, with the world held at bay by brick walls and golden light, the last vestiges of the men they used to be seemed to dissolve. The billionaire who calculated every risk, the operative who trusted no one—they were ghosts, pale memories eclipsed by the reality of this gentle, turning intimacy.

“I used to hate silence,” Anton said, the words forming without his conscious intent. “It felt like… dead air. A system failure. Now, in silences like this, with you… it’s the richest thing I know.”

She didn’t answer immediately, just pressed closer. When she spoke, her voice was muffled, thoughtful. “I used to only hear the threats in the quiet. The click of a safety, the rustle of an approaching footfall. Now…” She tilted her head back to look at him, her eyes reflecting the lantern flames. “Now I just hear you breathing. And it’s the sound of home.”

The confession, so simply stated, undid him. He stopped their swaying, his hand coming up from her waist to cradle her jaw. He looked into her eyes, seeing the stars and the lantern light and the unwavering truth of her. No one had ever called him ‘home’ before. He had been a destination, a fortress, a trophy. Never a home.

“Sabatine,” he whispered, her name a prayer in the cold air.

He kissed her then, under the swaying lanterns and the distant, indifferent stars. It was a kiss unlike any they had shared—not born of desperate passion or grateful survival, but of this deep, settled peace. It was slow, exploratory, a tender reaffirmation of every unspoken promise that had carried them through fire. Her lips were cool at first, then warm, yielding, answering his with a sweetness that made his chest ache.

When they parted, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting together. The music played on, a distant echo.

“We should go in,” she whispered, though she made no move to pull away. “It’s freezing.”

“In a minute,”he murmured, his hands framing her face. He wanted to seal this moment, this perfect, fragile bubble of serenity. He kissed her again, a soft brush of lips, then rested his cheek against hers, resuming their slow, silent dance on the frosty grass.

For a long time, they simply held each other, turning in the centre of their tiny, illuminated world. The ring in the safe, the Dubai lead, the unresolved threads with her family—none of it existed here. There was only the pressure of his hands at her waist, the steady rhythm of their hearts, and the profound, staggering gift of this ordinary, extraordinary night.

Eventually, the cold did penetrate, a sharp reminder of the world beyond their walls. Reluctantly, Anton guided them back towards the French doors, their steps slow. He retrieved her blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders, tucking it gently under her chin. She caught his hands, holding them against her chest for a moment, her eyes luminous.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For the dance?”

“For the country,”she said, nodding back at the lantern-lit garden. “For building it with me.”

He understood. It wasn’t just a garden. It was a metaphor for what they were creating together—a protected space, beautiful and resilient, where peace could be cultivated, and love could grow, even in the deepest winter.

Arm in arm, they went inside, leaving the lanterns to burn themselves out in the dark, a testament to the light they had found, guarded, and chosen to share. The night in the garden was over, but its warmth lingered, a quiet fire banked in both their hearts.

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