Page 11 of The Rook’s Obsession

It wasn’t because he couldn’t do it, either. The way he moved, the way he controlled me while administering the sedative? That wasn’t amateur work. That was training, and years of it. He fights the way I do, with economy and precision. It means he’s been in this world as long as I have. Maybe longer.

This man is dangerous. There’s no question about it. When I sprayed him in the eyes and kicked his wounded leg—a move that would’ve put most men on the ground for good—he got back up. He fought blind, in pain, bleeding through his bandage. Still, he overpowered me.

I don’t lose fights. I’ve been trained by some of the most brutal men in the world. I’ve been put through scenarios that would break most people, but I came out on the other side sharper every time. He put me on the floor and cuffed me again like it was routine.

He’s skilled. He’s a professional. He’s someone who knows exactly how much force to use and when to use it.

And he has chosen, more than once now, not to use it on me.

That’s what I keep coming back to. Every single thing I’ve done to him would justify retaliation, including when I lunged for a gun with every intention of putting a bullet in his skull. In my world, you respond to violence with greater violence. That’s the rule. That’s how I’ve survived.

But he didn’t do that. He settled for restraining me. He ordered me a goddamn cheeseburger.

Who the hell does that?

The water shuts off in the bathroom. I hear him moving around in there, shuffling a little in a way he won’t when he’s in front of me. He wants to be sure he doesn’t show weakness. I hope every step reminds him I am not the woman he thinks I am. I am not someone who can be drugged and cuffed and fed into compliance.

Except those fries tasted exactly right with the mayonnaise, and he knew they would. I have no explanation for that.

The bathroom door opens, and he limps out, moving carefully but not dramatically. He would probably rather chew his tongue off than admit he’s in pain. How do I know? I’m exactly the same way.

He looks at me, then at the window, where the first hints of a gray sky are starting to show behind the curtains. It’s late or early, depending on how you look at it. Either way, it’s been a long night for both of us.

“We need to sleep,” he tells me. “We’re flying back home in the morning.”

At first, I can only stare at him. “I am not flying anywhere with you.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now, we need to sleep.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you, either.”

Something shifts across his face. It’s something between a smile and a pained grimace. It makes my chest do that tight thing again that I don’t understand and don’t want. “You used to love sleeping next to me.”

Hatred isn’t something I can afford to bring into a job with me. I used to be better at compartmentalizing, back when I faced countless men brought in to train me. Brutal men who never bothered pretending they didn’t love inflicting pain. They taught me to fight and endure as much as they taught me to control my emotions, since letting the hatred through made me weak—easy to beat. “I don’t know you,” I grit out, smothering the flash of hatred that wants to burn me to a crisp.

His blank-faced certainty makes me hate him more. “You did. Used to curl up against my side with your head on my chest. That’s how you were sitting when your brother first caught us. Right next to me, tight against my side, with your head on my chest after you fell asleep while we were watching a movie.”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck, grinning. “It drove your brother crazy. He walked in, saw us together, and punched me in the jaw without saying a word.”

The way he says it, it’s a fond memory. Like getting punched in the face by someone’s brother is something to smile about. The casualness of it, the warmth underneath it… none of it fits.

“I don’t have a brother,” I remind him. I’m starting to get sick of repeating myself. “I just don’t. Please, stop this.”

“You do have a brother.” He comes to the foot of the bed, arms folded. Maybe he doesn’t want me to notice how he won’t put much weight on his injured leg, but I do. I make a note of it the way I make note of everything else about him I might be able to use. “His name is Liam. He’s been tearing himself apart for twelve years because he thought you were dead. As soon as we found out you weren’t, I got on a plane. That’s how much you matter to him—to both of us,” he adds.

“If I mattered so much, where the hell is he now and where was he for the last twelve years?”

The question comes out harder than I meant it to. It’s the one thing I can’t get past. The one piece of his story that doesn’t hold together no matter how many times I think it over. If I have a brother who loves me, who claims to have searched for me, where is he?

Nick doesn’t flinch. “He was grieving. We all were. There was an explosion on a boat. It was a wedding reception. Dozens of people died, including your parents. They were pulling bodies out of the water for days. One of those bodies was identified as yours.”

He pauses, and something dark crosses his face. “We buried you. Your brother thought he lost his entire family in one night. That’s what we all thought. We believed it because we had no reason not to.”

“And now?”

“Now we found out the truth. The Russos pulled you out of the water after the explosion. They took you. They could’ve brought you home, but they kept you instead. They gave you a new name. And about Liam not being here, trust me, he wanted to, but things are complicated at home.”

His voice is steady, but I hear the strain underneath. “I’m not kidding when I tell you, as soon as we found out you were alive, I came after you. Your brother is the one funding this whole trip. He wants to bring you home just as much as I do. That’s the truth. You can believe it or not, but it won’t change anything.”