Page 8 of The Rook’s Obsession

It doesn’t take long after that. It could be the fact that the sedative is losing its grip on her. It could be the aroma of food now filling the room.

Either way, she comes back to consciousness the way a predator wakes up. Her breathing changes. Her fingers flex. Then her eyes open—for a second, she looks confused. Lost. It makes something twist behind my ribs.

Her confusion lasts all of two seconds before she registers the cuff on her wrist, and her vulnerability vanishes like it was never there in the first place.

She pulls at the restraint once. Twice. She tests the headboard with a sharp, controlled yank. It tells me she’s assessing the strength of the frame rather than panicking. Her eyes sweep the room—the desk, where I laid out her weapons, the covered plates, the window, the door. Cataloguing exits and options.

Then her eyes land on me. If looks could kill, I would be nothing but a stain on the carpet.

“Hi there,” I murmur.

“You drugged me.” Her voice is hoarse, rough at the edges. She sounds more offended than scared.

“You shot me.”

“And handcuffed me to a bed.”

“I did, because you’ve already shot me once.”

“You’re a dead man.”

“Eventually,” I accept. “But not tonight.”

She pulls at the cuff again, harder this time. The headboard groans, but it holds. “Let me go.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Let me go now, or when I get free—which I will—I’ll make what I did to your leg feel like a paper cut.”

“I don’t know. I’ve had some pretty nasty paper cuts in my time, but I survived them.” Her gaze grows harder. Colder. “I believe you. But I’m still not letting you go. Not until you hear me out.”

Something flickers across her face. Frustration, maybe. The anger of someone who isn’t used to being at a disadvantage. “I heard you out two days ago. You talked, I listened, and none of it was true.”

“You didn’t listen,” I counter in a low, smooth voice. “You decided it wasn’t true before I opened my mouth. Nothing I said was going to change that. And I get it. You’ve spent twelve years believing one version of your life. Some stranger showing up, telling you it was all a lie? I understand why you wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“I don’t want to hear it because it’s not true.”

“Your name is Laura Knight. Your brother’s name is Liam. You were born in⁠—”

“Stop.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut glass. “Stop saying that. I don’t have a brother. I don’t know anyone named Liam. My name is Ivy, and the people who raised me⁠—”

“Kidnapped you.”

“Saved me.”

“That’s what they told you.” It isn’t easy to keep myself from snapping. “They told you a lot of things, and you had no reason not to believe them. So you did. But I’m telling you, Laura⁠—”

“My name is Ivy.”

“I’m telling you, the story they gave you was a lie. You weren’t rescued. You were taken from a family who loved you. You were in an explosion on a boat, and they pulled you out of the water. Instead of bringing you home, they kept you. They gave you a new name, and they turned you into something they could use.”

Her jaw is clenched tight enough that I can see muscles jumping under her skin. Her free hand grips the sheet, her knuckles white. She isn’t looking at me anymore. She’s staring at the ceiling, breathing through her nose. From across the room, I can see the war happening behind her eyes. The part of her that wants to dismiss everything I’ve said fights with the part of her that can’t, because somewhere deep down inside, she knows something doesn’t add up.

“You’re lying,” she decides. But the conviction isn’t there. Not the way it was two nights ago. Back then, she was sure of herself. Now, she’s holding on to that certainty like it’s a fraying rope.

I could push harder. Lay out every detail I know. Every piece of evidence, every gap in the story they fed her. But I’ve been around enough people who’ve had the rug pulled out from under them to know pushing too hard, too fast, doesn’t break through walls. It only makes them thicker.

So I let it go for now. “Okay,” I murmur.