Page 9 of The Rook’s Obsession

She blinks, turning her head to look at me. Her eyes are bright with suspicion. “Okay?”

“Okay. You don’t want to hear it, so I’ll stop. For now.” When I stand, the movement pulls at my stitches. I don’t let it show. “You’ve been unconscious for a couple of hours. You need to eat.”

Immediately, as I’m uncovering the plates, the smell of beef and fried potatoes hits the room. She watches me with narrowed eyes. “I’m not eating anything you give me.”

“It’s from room service. I didn’t fuck with it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I set one of the plates on the bedside table, within reach of her free hand, along with a glass of water. I add the little cup of mayonnaise, pretending it’s an afterthought, before sitting down with my own plate.

At first, she doesn’t touch it, settling for staring at it. “Eat,” I urge.

“You first.”

I look at her. She raises an eyebrow.

Fair enough. If I was in her position, I would do the same thing. That’s why I reach out, grab her burger, and take a bite. I snag one of her fries, too. It’s crisp, salty.

“Good enough?” I don’t wait for an answer, returning to my chair so I can eat my own food.

She still waits at least a solid minute, expecting me to keel over. When I don’t, she picks up the burger and takes a small bite. Then another. Then another, faster now, because her body needs fuel whether or not her pride likes it.

But it’s when she picks up a fry and drags it through the mayonnaise that I see something move across her face. There it is. What I was looking for. Something deep in her brain just fired. A connection she can’t name. Familiarity that doesn’t belong to the life she thinks she’s lived.

“You always loved mayo with your fries,” I tell her.

She freezes, except for her eyes, which snap to mine. For the first time since I met this version of her, I see something that looks like genuine surprise. She didn’t expect that. For me to know something so specific and real.

“Lucky guess.” But her voice is thin.

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself.” I eat one of my own fries, talking as I chew. “I always thought it was disgusting, which used to crack you up.”

She covers her surprise quickly, but she’s not fast enough. I saw it, and she knows I did. “It doesn’t prove anything,” she mutters.

“I know.”

She doesn’t respond, choosing to eat instead. I let the silence between us do the work. Her story is starting to crack. That’s enough.

When the plates are empty, she looks at me with something that’s not quite hostility anymore. Still guarded, still wary, but the sharpness has dulled a little.

Or maybe I’m only imagining it, because that’s what I want to be true.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she announces.

I study her for a second. It’s a calculated risk, and I’m sure we both know it. But I can’t keep her cuffed to the bed indefinitely without letting her use the bathroom. “I’ll uncuff you. The bathroom door stays open.”

“Absolutely not,” she fires back.

“It stays cracked, then.”

Her jaw tightens, but she nods once. I take the key from my pocket and unlock the cuff. There’s a red line where the metal sat against her skin, and she rubs it now. The sight makes my stomach clench.

When she stands, it’s in one fluid motion. No lingering effects from the sedative. It’s not lost on me that she’s already back to full capacity.

She doesn’t look at me on her way to the bathroom. She does, however, leave the door open just enough to technically satisfy our agreement. I hear water running. The toilet flushing. More water.

Then the door swings open all at once, and she comes out fast, her arm extended, her finger jammed on the nozzle of a can of deodorant I left on the bathroom counter.

The spray hits me straight in the eyes.

My eyes slam shut on reflex, but it’s too late. The pain is instant and blinding. Tears stream down my cheeks as I reach for her on pure instinct. Her boot connects with my left thigh—right where the bullet went through, right against the stitches—and the world goes white.