She leans back against the table. I stand in front of her, close enough to touch.
"I won't kill him."
She goes still.
"What?"
"Reilan." I hold her gaze. "I won't kill him. Not without proof. Not without giving you a chance to find another way."
Her eyes move across my face, searching.
"Why?"
I don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer except the one that's been building in my chest for days.
"Because you stayed." I step closer. "When you could have left. When you should have left. You stayed with me through the worst of it. That means something."
Her hand comes up. Touches my jaw.
"I'm staying sober for you," I say. The words feel raw. Exposed. "Every day I don't use is because you're here. Because I don't want you to see me like that again."
Something shifts in her expression. Softens.
"Stay sober for yourself." Her thumb traces my cheekbone. "I'll be here either way."
I don't know what to say to that.
So I don't say anything.
I lean down and press my forehead to hers. Close my eyes. Let the silence be enough.
My mind ticks away with what to do about Reilan. I'll feed him information. Something specific. Something I can track. I'll tell him about Viktor's meeting. About Friday night. About the warehouse.
And then I'll wait.
If the information reaches Viktor before we strike, there's only one way it could have gotten there.
If that happens, Reilan dies.
No hesitation. No mercy. No matter what it costs Aoife.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Aoife
THE SILK BLOUSE is a size too small.
I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror, tugging at the hem where it pulls across my hips. Cream colored, with mother-of-pearl buttons that catch the morning light. The trousers fit better, high-waisted black wool that someone paired with a thin leather belt. Expensive pieces. Tasteful. The kind of clothes I would have chosen for myself if I'd had access to my own wardrobe.
I haven't. Not since the safe house. Not since we came here.
My hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends the way it does when I don't blow it straight. I don't have a dryer. Don't have much of anything except borrowed clothes and borrowed time in a house that belongs to someone else.
I smooth the blouse one more time and think about last night.
The dining room table.
Heat crawls up my throat at the memory. William's hands on my hips. The cold wood against my back. The way he looked at me after, when we were both trying to catch our breath, and neither of us knew what to say.
