Page 2 of The Rook’s Obsession

Ivy. It’s like a punch to the chest, hearing that name. Of course they gave her a new one. Why wouldn’t they? They took everything else.

“That isn’t your name.” Something inside me is breaking apart in ways I can’t deal with, but I keep my voice steady. “Your name is Laura Knight. You have a brother named Liam. You grew up in⁠—”

“Stop,” she barks, but softly. “I don’t know who Laura is. I don’t know who you are.”

Her grip tightens on the gun. “What I do know is you’ve been asking about me for weeks, and I want to know why.”

Weeks. She’s known about me for weeks. That means she’s been watching me, tracking my movements, gathering information. I had no idea. It stings. I can’t pretend otherwise. I was following her, never knowing she was following me.

“I’ve been looking for you,” I confirm while slowly lowering my hands a fraction of an inch at a time. Of course she notices—her gaze is following my movement—but she doesn’t react. “I’ve been looking for months. Ever since I found out you were alive. My search led me here. I came to bring you home.”

Her smooth forehead wrinkles, and her eyes narrow. “Home.” Like it’s a foreign language she doesn’t speak. “Where exactly is home?”

“Back in the States. With your brother. With the people who love you.” With me. I don’t dare say that. It would be the ideal way to get shot.

Gears turn behind her narrowed eyes. I watch as she analyzes me the way she would analyze a target. Running calculations. Measuring the threat. Any warmth that existed in those green eyes when we were kids, when she used to look at me like I was the only person in the world worth looking at, is gone.

And it’s been replaced by something cold and clinical.

“Nice story,” she murmurs. “But I don’t have a brother. I don’t have a home in the States. I was rescued from a bad situation when I was a kid. The people who took me in gave me a life. They gave me a purpose.”

She tilts her head like she’s studying me. Or like she’s trying to decide which organ she should aim for. “If you knew me back then, that would make you part of the bad situation.”

Of course. That’s what they told her. It wasn’t enough for them to take her. They rewrote her. They fed her a version of events where they were the heroes, and everyone she loved was the villain.

And she believed them, because what choice did she have? She was a fifteen-year-old kid with no memory. They were the only ones with her; the only people she could depend on.

And they used that against her. They turned her into something they could use. She’s not going to believe me. I wouldn’t want to believe either.

“That isn’t what happened,” I insist, because apparently, I’m a fucking idiot who knows better but can’t help himself. “You were in an explosion on a boat. Your family thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead for twelve years, Laura. Your brother grieved for you. I—” I stop myself before I go too far. “I grieved for you,” I conclude.

There’s nothing on her face. No flicker of recognition. Not even a twitch to tell me something landed. I might as well be a stranger on the street telling her I’m her long-lost best friend. The look on her face is polite disbelief at best, active suspicion at worst.

“My name,” she murmurs slowly, like she’s explaining it to a toddler, “is Ivy. I don’t know any Liam. I don’t know any Laura. And I sure as hell don’t know you.”

When she takes a step forward, it means closing the distance between us by a foot. The barrel of the Beretta is close enough now that I could reach out and touch it. “I will ask you one more time. Why are you looking for me?”

“Because I made a promise.” The words leave my mouth before I can help it, but they’re true. Every single one. “I promised someone a long time ago that I would protect you. I failed once. I’m not going to fail again.”

Something happens. It’s so fast, I almost miss it. The slightest hesitation. The smallest softening around her eyes. It disappears as quickly as it came, but it was there. Like a door cracked open and slammed shut in the same heartbeat. She felt something. I don’t care what she says or how well she hides it. For half a second, something I said got through.

Which is probably why she overcorrects by pressing the barrel of the gun against my sternum. Even through my shirt, the metal is cold. “You’re lying, or you’re delusional. Either way, you’re a problem I don’t need.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“Yes, you are,” she informs me in a flat, final sort of tone. “You’re leaving Prague tonight. You will stop asking questions about me. You will go back to wherever you came from, and you will forget I exist.”

“I will never do that.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

I know it’s stupid even as I’m doing it, but I can’t help myself. I’ve spent four months searching for her and twelve years thinking she was lost forever. My time in Europe has been nothing but sleepless nights spent staring at the only photo I have of her. The one from before, when she was fifteen and smiling. Back when she had no idea what was going to happen.

I have spent four months wondering whether I’d ever see those green eyes of hers in person ever again.

And now, here she is. In front of me. Close enough to touch.

So I reach for her.