“Then answer me,” I counter.
A beat passes, he clenches his jaw and says, “No.”
My hands curl at my sides, nails bruising my skin. “Rook—”
“No,” he says again, sharper.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “He’s still alive.”
“Yes.”
“For what.”
“For what we still need.”
“We’ve squeezed him.”
“Not enough.”
I laugh. It’s not pretty. “Not enough for who, him or you?”
His jaw ticks.
There it is.
I take a step closer. Then another. The floorboards are old, dark, varnished to a shine. I can see my reflection in them when I look down. Bare feet. Ink climbing my arms. One of Rook’s shirts hanging off my frame, the hem hitting high on my thighs. Sleep-rumpled hair. Mouth already set in a line I know makes him crazy.
I look like I rolled out of his bed.
I didn’t.
But I look like I did.
He knows it.
I use it.
“Every time I go in there,” I say, voice low, “he talks. He gives names. He gives routes. He gives dates. He gives numbers. He gives whatever we ask. He’s already told you about Russo. About the corridor. About the money that moved hands. About who moved it. He’s told you why Owen was labeled compromised. He’s told you they called me leverage. He’s told you they blackmailed him with losing clearances, and he lapped it up like cream. He’s told you he’s not sorry.” Rook just watches me, but I keep going. “He’s told you Marcus was ‘good’ at ‘conditioning’ young assets. He’s told you he filed all that under morale development. He’s told you he can get you files if you ‘just let him near a terminal’ because he still thinks you’re idiots.”
My throat goes tight on that.
“I’ve listened to him talk about me like I’m a report,” I whisper. “I’ve listened to him call Owen sloppy. I’ve listened to him say Owen was a liability for loving me more than he loved the job. I’ve listened and I’ve smiled and I’ve smiled and I’ve smiled and I have not killed him yet. All because you asked me to hold.”
My voice breaks on that last part, just a hair.
Rook notices. Of course he does. “And now I’m done,” I say.
Rook exhales slowly. His gaze drifts down my throat, lingers at the edge of the shirt I stole out of his closet, flicks to my bare legs, then back to my face. He’s not doing it to be distracting — though, God, it is. He’s doing it because he studies everything. Even me.
Especially me.
“You think I’m keeping him breathing because I enjoy it,” he says.
“Don’t you?” I ask, and his head jerks, the movement so fast and sharp it’s honestly beautiful. That’s the thing with Caelum Voss — when the mask slips, even a fraction, you see what you should run from.
“You think I like hearing him say your name,” he says softly.
My mouth goes dry.
