Page 66 of Rook

“Maybe,” I reply, unconvinced. “But last I checked, we make our own fate. And Aisling…she’s no one’s to claim.”

Vance’s lips twitch into a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

“And how do you think Gunnar would feel?” I asked. “Don’t think he would be too thrilled about you laying claim to Aisling.”

Vance’s smirk fades as he leans back in his chair, a calculating look crossing his features. “Gunnar is taking himself out of the picture,” he says coolly, as if discussing the weather. “He’s making choices that’ll lead him down that path whether he likes it or not.”

I snort at that, unable to contain my disbelief. “You sure about that? ‘Cause last time I checked, Gunnar was down in the heat spa with her right now. Seems to me like he’s pretty damn involved.” My words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.

For a moment, Vance’s mask slips, revealing a glint of something dangerous in those bright blue eyes before he regains control. He doesn’t respond immediately, and I wonder if I’ve struck a nerve.

Vance’s jaw clenches, and he straightens up, the calm demeanor slipping for a split second. “Even after Gunnar and Nero pulled that stunt on the skyway? After everything—“

“Wasn’t them,” I cut in, leaning against the doorjamb with my arms crossed. “That’s what everyone thought, but they got set up.”

Vance’s face hardens, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Set up?” he echoes, skepticism lacing his tone.

“Yep.” I watch as Vance processes this, his mind obviously racing behind those cool blue eyes. “Looks like we’ve all been played.”

“Damn it.” He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the lush carpet. “We need to figure out who’s behind this then.”

“Thought that was your department,” I say, pushing off from the door. “You’re the one with connections.”

“Connections are no good if they’re feeding you lies.” Vance walks over to a side table, pouring himself another drink. “This complicates things more than I like.”

“Welcome to the club.”

He takes a sip, his gaze locked on mine. “I have things to do, Rook. Business that can’t wait.” The edge in his voice is sharper now, a clear dismissal.

“Sure, sure,” I reply, turning toward the door. “Just one last thing—what’s your endgame with Aisling?”

“Endgame?” The word comes out almost like a snarl. He sets his glass down with a click. “Just get to the heat spa before you miss your chance,” he says, ignoring my question. “Wouldn’t want you regretting your noble stance later.”

“Regrets aren’t really my style,” I shoot back, but as I step into the hall, something tells me that Vance has a lot more at stake than I originally thought.

I push the suite door shut behind me, the click of the latch a full stop to the weirdness brewing inside. Vance’s parting words hang like smoke in my mind, thick and cloying. The air in the hallway feels cooler, a contrast to the heat that seems to cling to his words. I shake it off, sliding my hands into my pockets as I walk.

“Damn Archangel and his cryptic crap,” I mutter under my breath. But something gnaws at me, something about the way Vance looked when he told me to scram.

And that face—the guy who’d just left—why can’t I place him?

The elevator dings, its doors sliding open with a hush. I step in, jab the button for my floor harder than necessary. As the numbers count down, it hits me—like a sucker punch to the gut.

That face.

Not some random from a bar fight or a deal gone sideways.

“Son of a bitch,” I say out loud, though there’s no one to hear me but the polished metal walls reflecting a distorted version of myself back at me.

My boots thud against the carpet as I stride down the hallway to my room. I don’t bother with lights when I barge in, heading straight for the laptop on the desk. It flickers to life at my touch, the drone footage queued up like it’s been waiting just for this moment.

There, the Mojave Skyway looms on the screen, static-filled and ghostly. I scrub through the timeline, heart hammering. That’s when I see it, clear as the lies that’ve been fed to us—there he is, the guy from Vance’s suite, right there on the footage.

Same build.

Same gait.

“Gotcha,” I whisper, a vindictive satisfaction seeping through the shock. With a few clicks, I zoom in, freeze-frame the bastard mid-step, his face twisted in a snarl that’s meant for killing.

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