“Jesus,” he blurts, making this big dramatic eye roll. “It ticks me off when you make sense. Oh, I have an idea. We bring them here. Crazy will love the company.”
I cock a brow. “Crazy? You mean Sophia?”
“I call her Crazy, because have you seen how obsessed she gets with a door?”
“Nicknames, huh?” I hate the possessive pang in my gut. “Just so you know,” I place my beer on the counter, eyes glued to his, “I will feed you your cock if you so much as look at her in a way that pisses me off.”
Ian grins, all cool-water and wolf. “You fucking wish I’d look at her like that. Girl’s got more crazy in her pinky than you do in your whole sad-sack PTSD brain. Don’t overestimate my capacity for crazy.”
I flip him off and finish the beer in one long pull, letting the cold numb my teeth and scrape a little of the ache off the inside.
“Okay, fine,” he concedes, grabbing two beers from the fridge and handing me one. “Let’s game it out, then. We go to Samuel, tell him everything, and then what?”
This is the part he’ll get a hernia over, and I remain silent as I pick my words.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” he utters, and by the look on his face he’s already figured it out. “No. Abso-fucking-lutely not. Not happening.”
“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”
“Of course, I do. You got stupid written all over you.” Ian walks to stand by the floor-to-ceiling window, and I wait for him to process it. It always takes him a while. “She won’t fall for it.”
I take my beer and sit on the couch. “Who?”
“Both of them. But especially Crazy.”
I give him a warning glare.
“Oh, get over it. Besides, she’s not my type.”
“What is your type?”
“Loud, obnoxious, mean, and allergic to emotional attachments. That’s why I like you, and why Sophia makes me want to staple my own tongue to the desk.” He tilts the bottle toward me. “But you. You like her because she’s going to rip you apart, and you’ll say ‘thank you, wasn’t enough, spit in my mouth, ma’am.’”
I snort in spite of myself.
“I’m serious, Reth.” All sarcasm is drained out of the conversation. “That woman upstairs, she’s not going to go anywhere. Especially if the plan involves you not going with.”
I twirl the bottle in my hand. “You’re implying that she has a choice in the matter.”
Ian’s expression falls, and his silence is deafening.
“I don’t have to read your mind to know what you’re thinking,” I say. “But deep in that very loud brain of yours, you’ve already calculated every outcome, just like I have. And you’ve come to the same conclusion as I have.”
Ian stares at me for a long time. The muscle in his jaw works. When he speaks again, his voice is stripped of everything—the mischief, the deflection, the sharp edges.
“You know what she’ll do to you.”
I press my lips in a thin line, staring at the bottle, toying with the label. “At least then she won’t be able to do anything to the people I care about.” I swallow. “In the end, that’s all that matters.”
Ian presses the heel of his hand against his mouth. Breathes through his nose. “You’ll let her win?”
“I’m going to let herbelieveshe’s won.” I meet his eyes. “That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Valeria wants two things. Control, and me. If she thinks she has both?—”
“She won’t search for them,” Ian finishes it. His voice is hollow. “She calls off the net, because why chase the ones who ran when she already has the one that matters.”
