Page 14 of The Rook’s Obsession

I feel it before I see it. A shift in her energy, in the way she holds herself once she’s stepped into the small tub.

The tension doesn’t leave. It only transforms into something else as I join her under the hot, steamy spray.

She reaches past me for the soap and brushes my chest. It wasn’t an accident. There’s nothing accidental about her.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” She turns to face me under the spray. Water runs down her shoulders, her collarbone, tracking paths I’m trying very hard not to follow. She tilts her head back to let the water soak her hair, and a half-smile plays at the corners of her mouth. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything close to a smile on her face, and it hits me like a fist.

“Like what you see?” she asks. Low. Almost playful.

I do. God, help me, I do. She’s leaner than she used to be. Harder, defined in ways that speak to years of physical training.

Underneath it, though, she’s still Laura. The same lines. The same grace. The curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders. Even the shape of her breasts, the rosy pink of her nipples. My body remembers her even if her mind doesn’t remember me. Twelve years of grief, and my hands still know exactly where they’d go if I let them.

But I won’t. Not like this.

Because I see what she’s doing.

She’s good. I’ll give her that. If I didn’t know her—what she is, what she’s been trained to do—I might fall for it. The way her posture softens. The way she angles toward me instead of away. The brush of her fingers against my arm when she reaches for the shampoo. The way she holds eye contact a beat too long.

She’s running a play. The oldest one in the book. Lower his guard with proximity and the promise of something he wants. Make him think she’s warming up to him. And when he’s distracted, when his brain is fogged with desire and his defenses are down? Time to strike.

I know this because I’ve seen it before, if not from her. People in this world understand sex is a weapon, and the body is a tool. It’s textbook, and it’s effective.

And it tells me something else about what the Russos turned her into. Something that makes my blood run cold in a way it hasn’t yet when I think of her as an assassin.

But I play along. Not because I’m stupid enough to drop my guard, but because two can play this game. I need her to believe she has the upper hand. If she thinks her little plan is working, she’ll keep me close. If she keeps me close, I can get her on that plane.

I let myself look. I let my gaze travel where it wants to go, and I won’t pretend it doesn’t matter, because she would see through that in a heartbeat. What I do is keep my hands to myself and my weight balanced. Always balanced. Ready to move.

“You’re different than I expected.” The water runs between us now, a shared stream. She’s close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin through the steam enveloping us. “Most men I’ve met in this life take what they want. They don’t wait.”

“I’m not most men.”

“No.” Water clings to her lashes when she looks up at me. Her hand comes up, fingers light against my chest, tracing a line along my collarbone. “You’re not.”

My pulse spikes, but it isn’t the hand touching me I’m concerned with. It’s her other hand. The one by her side. The one curling into a fist.

She moves fast. Her knee drives upward, aimed precisely where it would end this conversation fast. It’s vicious, and it’s well-timed, and if I hadn’t been waiting for it, it would’ve landed. And I would be in a world of pain.

But I was waiting. My hand catches her knee before it connects with my balls, redirecting the force sideways. She’s already pivoting, throwing an elbow, but the wet tub works against her. I use her momentum, spin her, and pin her back against the tile wall.

The water beats down on both of us. Her back is against the cold tile, my forearm across her collarbone, my hand still gripping her knee. She’s breathing hard, but I’m breathing harder. Her eyes are wild with fury, but underneath it, there’s something else. Something she doesn’t want me to see.

We’re pressed together with nothing between us. No clothes, no weapons. Just skin and water and the kind of tension that could go one of two directions.

“Nice try,” I murmur roughly. My heart’s racing and my cock is doing what my cock does when it’s this close to a wet, naked woman.

Her chest heaves against mine, but she doesn’t look away. Her cheeks flush pink with what could be anger or what could be our nearness. Deep down inside, I think her body remembers me.

“Let go,” she grunts, shoving her hands against my stomach.

“Why would I do that? When you can’t play nice. You really must think I’m an amateur.” I’m not sure if I’m hurt or insulted. I’ll go with insulted, because the pain—and the pain is there, pulsing under the surface—would be too much to live with if I gave it any space to exist. The thought of how many times she must have run this play. My Laura.

Despite knowing it’s not her fault, part of me wants to be angry at her. Angry for leaving, angry for living this life, and furious for everything she did while we were apart.