Page 75 of The Rook’s Obsession

I didn’t really believe it, though. Not after the bridge. Not after she told me she wanted me to be part of whatever came next. But belief is a fragile thing at three in the morning when you’re sitting in a car watching a hotel window and wondering if the woman behind it is thinking about you at all.

I followed her on the fourth day. Watched her leave the hotel and followed her to the piazza. To the restaurant. I watched as she and Lucia disappeared into the restaurant together. There I was, standing across the street with my hands in my pockets and my jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth would crack, and I waited.

When she came out alone, something had changed. I could feel it. The look of a woman who just figured something out and wasn’t happy about it.

That was when I made my decision. That was when I knew I couldn’t wait another minute. I wasn’t going to let fate decide. I was going to act, because acting is what I do. So I did it.

She’s starting to stir. At first, it’s a small sound. Not quite a groan. More like a confused murmur. Her head lifts from where it was resting against the window, and her eyelashes flutter.

I watch the moment consciousness comes back. The tightening of her features. The automatic flex of her hands against the restraints. The quick, sharp intake of breath that says her training kicked in before her brain did.

Her eyes snap open. Green, clear. Instantly focused. They find me, and for a second, neither of us moves. We might not even breathe.

I’m ready for anything, or at least that’s what I need to believe. For anger. Even fury. Maybe the cold, calculated look she wore the first time she woke up restrained. The look that said she was already planning three ways to kill me. I’m ready for her to spit at me, to curse at me, to promise to make me regret this. I’m ready for the fight, because with Ivy there’s always a fight, and I’ve learned to love the fight because it means she still cares enough to have one.

She looks at the zip ties. Looks at me. Then looks out the window, where the clouds are bright and white and seem to stretch on forever.

Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and I brace myself for whatever comes next. “What took you so long?” she asks.

At first, I can only stare at her. She stares back. There’s no anger in her face. No strategy. She looks tired and honest, and maybe a little relieved. “What took me so long?” I repeat.

“Three days.” She adjusts her position in the seat, testing the zip ties again. Not like she’s trying to escape. It’s more absent, like she’s still taking stock of the situation. “You made me wait three fucking days.”

I fell asleep, right? I haven’t done much sleeping over the past few days, after all. I’m dreaming now, because there is no version of reality in which this is happening. But I hear the jet engines humming, and I smell the leather seats, and the weight of her in my arms when I held her up after I used the syringe was very real. I clear my throat, then point out, “You walked away from me.”

“Yes.”

“You told me the mission was over.”

“I did.”

“You walked around the corner and didn’t look back.”

“I looked back,” she says quietly. “You just didn’t see it.”

Something swells in my chest. I lean forward in my seat, studying her face for the flicker that would let me know this is a strategy. A new approach to an old problem. It’s what she does, what she was trained to do. Adapt, improvise, use whatever tools are available—including the feelings of the man sitting across from you.

I don’t find any of it. Either she’s gotten better at hiding it than I am at reading it, or it isn’t there at all.

“Were you waiting for me?” I ask. “Is this a game?”

“No.” She doesn’t blink or look away. She doesn’t hesitate at all. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. I wasn’t sure you’d want anything to do with me after what I said.”

“You thought I’d just let you go?”

“People let go all the time. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do. You just… stop holding on.” She turns her face toward the window. The clouds throw soft light across it and make her look younger than she is. Fragile, almost, though she’d gut me for using that word. “I thought maybe, once you had time to think about it, you’d realize I was right. That the mission was the only reason you were there, and without it⁠—”

“Goddammit. That’s not true, and you know it.”

“I know it now.” She looks back at me. “I didn’t know it then. Three days is a long time to sit in a hotel room with nothing but your own thoughts and a ceiling that won’t answer your questions.”

I almost smile. “I was watching you the entire time.”

“I know.”

She is determined to make me fall out of my chair. “You knew?”

“Not until today. But I should’ve known sooner.” She pauses. The jet hums around us, steady and constant. “You were never going to let me go, were you?”