Page 103 of Gravehouse

Her brows pinch. “What?”

“You heard me.” I shove myself through the doorway and into the bedroom. “I needed to know who was taking out LaMaison. Needed a name. Needed a face. Couldn’t exactly walk up and ask.” I shrug, grabbing my shirt off the chair, and yanking it over my head.

“What about before—”she starts to say, and the laugh that leaves me is vile.

“Fake.” I turn back to her. “The whole thing. Everything.” I hold her stare and don’t blink. “You think I’d fucking love you?”

Her mouth opens, and then closes, as all the color drains from her face.

“I needed you close.” I hear my own voice go flat and I let it stay there. “Needed to see who you answered to. Who gave you Parker’s name. And you told me. Eventually.”

Her eyes land on mine. “I told you because I trusted you. Because you told me—” she blinks, as if just remembering something. “Nonna. I saw the blood of the sniper. I saw, and you said…”

I smirk. “The sniper is alive.”

Her lips part, and I see the raw truth of it, because as much as Ivy thinks she can mask her feelings, she can’t. At least not from me.

“But you want to know how.” There are too many ways I can hurt this woman, and only one that will work. “I put a round through his shoulder from fourteen hundred meters in pitch black with a crosswind pushing east.”

My eyes narrow, prodding her to catch on. “Fourteen hundred meters, Ivy. No night vision. No spotter.” I pause, letting the math do its own work. “And I still managed to miss every kill zone in his body by a clean six inches.”

She trips over her own feet when she steps back, her eyes wide and glassy. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” I jerk back with just enough sarcasm.

“You’re lying.” Louder now, her hand hitting the doorframe. “Because I know you. The before you?—”

“People like us fake everything.” I raise my hands. “That’s the job, Ivy.” Fatigue squeezes out the last words. “You alreadyknowthat.”

She changes her mind, crosses back into the room in four steps and shoves me, both palms flat against my chest.

I don’t move.

She shoves me again, harder, and a sound tears out of her throat that isn’t quite a cry and isn’t quite a sob.

“Then finish it!” She screams, veins swelling in her neck. “If that’s what this is, if I’m just a loose end, then finish it. Do it right now. Stop dragging it out and just—”She must notice the bored expression on my face, because she stops.

I let the silence hang heavy for a moment, staring through her like she’s fucking nothing. “Get out of my house.”

She blinks up at me wide-eyed and breathless.

I lean in closer. “Now.”

Ivy

His bedroom door clicks shut behind me, and I flatten my palm over my sternum as if it can stop my heart from beating out my chest. The world spins too fast to hold onto, so I start counting because numbers make sense and this whole fucking situation doesn’t.

One, two, three, four.

Emotional compromise leads to operational failure. Identify the threat. Neutralize the threat. If the threat is internal, compartmentalize. Seal it off. Lock it down.

My hands shake against my shirt, so I curl them into fists, breathing slowly until the tremors ease. Turning the handle, I push into my room.

The second the door closes, I head for the closet and drag out the suitcase I packed after Désamour. I shove the last of my things inside, zip it closed, and stand, giving the room one last look—the rumpled sheets, the cage I thought had me trapped—before heading for the exit.

“Ivy?” Khloe stops when she sees me coming out, her eyes dropping to the suitcase. “What’s happening? What did he?—”

“Nothing,” I say, managing a smile that dies halfway there. “It was nice meeting you, Khloe.”