Page 28 of The Rook’s Obsession

Which means closer to three, probably.

I’ve been here before. Maybe not geographically, but situationally. When I get out of my own way and allow my body to do what it needs to do, it takes no time to pull my clothes on and shove my feet back into the sneakers sitting by the bed. “How many?” I ask, quickly tying the laces before rising. I’m not rushing. No trembling, no racing. I’ve been here before.

“At least three, based on the sensor pattern.” He’s dressed now, going to the closet. “Could be more. They triggered in sequence. It means a coordinated approach.”

“Standard formation,” I muse, watching him pull a large bag from the closet. “They’ll split up. Main force through the back where the trees give them more cover, one or two around the front to catch runners or create a diversion.”

He looks up at me, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Not surprise. More like acknowledgment that my thoughts run in the same direction his do. Maybe it’s a grim reminder of who I really am rather than who he wishes I was.

“Stay behind me,” he fires off, unzipping the bag and unloading a small arsenal. Where did that come from? Was this part of Liam having the house stocked, the way Nick mentioned during dinner?

“No way.”

“Laura—”

“Dammit. My name is Ivy, and I’m not hiding behind you while people breach this cabin.” With frustration bordering on rage filling my veins, I keep my voice low and even. Emotion is noise. Noise gets you killed. “You know what I can do. And we both know who this probably is.” Granted, I didn’t think they’d come for me so soon, and I have no idea how they knew where to find us. But this is Vincenzo we’re dealing with. He has his ways. “If this is the Russos, they won’t send two or three men. They will send a full team. You’re good, I’ll give you that, but you’re on an injured leg and you need me.”

I watch him wrestle with it for a second or two. Weighing the risk of arming me against the risk of fighting alone. For all he knows, I could take a gun and put it to his head. I could use the chaos as cover and disappear into the woods. He’s thinking about both of those possibilities along with more I haven’t considered.

I can’t blame him. If I were in his position, I would think the same thing. I’m not sure why I want to fight in the first place—yet another question probably going through his head, as well. If these men have come to extract me, I should throw open the door and invite them in.

Why don’t I, then? Why did I immediately decide to fight? Like a reflex, something that popped up in my head before I had the chance to think.

Was it the kiss? Damn it. This isn’t the time.

“You need me,” I insist while the clock ticks, and we lose time against these assholes, whoever they are, whatever they’re here for. “If they breach, you’re fighting in close quarters with limited cover and a bad leg. I am a very good asset. Use me.”

He hesitates another beat before reaching into the bag and pulling out two handguns. One is a compact Beretta, the other a Smith & Wesson. He holds them out, grip first. “Don’t make me regret this.”

I take both weapons, check the chambers, then tuck one into my waistband. The weight of a gun in my hand settles something in me that’s been unsettled since Prague. This is what I know. This is who I am. Whatever confusion exists about my name, my identity, none of it matters when I’m holding a weapon and someone is coming to possibly kill me.

“No promises,” I mutter, and he almost smiles, which is insane considering the situation.

We move down the hallway in the dark, keeping low. He talks along the way. “There are three access points. Front door, back door, kitchen window. They’ll circle and cover front and back before breaching.”

“I’ll take the back,” I tell him. “Kitchen. You cover the front.”

He doesn’t like it. I feel it in the way he pauses, the fresh tension in his shoulders. He wants me in his sight line. He needs to know where I am at every moment.

But he knows I’m right.

“Fine,” he decides. “Back door and kitchen window.”

At the end of the hallway, we split up. I’m moving left into the kitchen before the word is fully out of his mouth. I have the Beretta in a two-handed grip. My breathing is slow and controlled. Four counts in, four counts out. The way I’ve been doing it since I learned to shoot in a basement in Rome with Vincenzo’s men watching and judging every twitch.

And punishing me at the first sign of weakness. I knew it even then that they enjoyed it.

My position behind the kitchen counter gives me cover and a clear angle to both the back door and the window above the sink. I set the Smith & Wesson on the counter within reach.

And I wait.

The silence is its own kind of sound. I hear the lake out there, the soft lap of water against the dock. My own heartbeat, steady and slow.

And underneath it, getting closer all the time, boots on the ground. Multiple sets, moving fast. They’re not bothering with stealth anymore.

They’re coming.

The front window shatters first. I hear the shot, the spray of glass, Nick returning fire in the living room. Two controlled rounds. There’s a shout outside—someone got hit. Good.