Page 30 of Eden and her Mercenary
"Not bad for being stuck in the middle of nowhere," Royal remarked, dropping our meager belongings on the worn leather sofa.
I sank down beside the bags, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the past seventy-two hours. "I can't believe we're just... waiting now. After everything."
"Welcome to the anticlimactic aftermath," Royal said, crouching to light the fireplace. "Always feels strange when the adrenaline wears off."
By evening, we'd fallen into an oddly domestic routine—checking on Stella every few hours, helping Mack change her bandages, then returning to our temporary shelter. We'd eaten Chen's surprisingly good vegetable stew, showered in the tiny bathroom with its temperamental water pressure, and now found ourselves facing a long, quiet night with nothing to do.
Royal paced the cabin like a caged animal, restless energy radiating from him. I watched from my perch on the sofa, wrapped in a borrowed flannel blanket.
"You're making me dizzy," I finally said.
He stopped mid-stride, running a hand throughhis hair. "Sorry. Not good at sitting still."
"I've noticed." I patted the space beside me. "Come sit. Tell me something I don't know about you."
He hesitated, then dropped onto the sofa, his weight making the old springs creak. "Like what?"
"Anything. Your favorite color. Your first pet. Whether you've ever been fishing in that lake out there."
A slow smile spread across his face. "As a matter of fact, I have. Chen's got some decent smallmouth bass in that water or so Mack tells me." He turned to me, suddenly curious. "Have you ever been fishing?"
I shook my head. "Never had the chance. Always on the road, always another dog to transport."
Royal's eyes lit up with an intensity that made something flutter in my chest. "That settles it. Tomorrow, we're going fishing."
"With what equipment?"
"Chen's got gear in the shed. I spotted it earlier." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't tell me Eden Wade, the woman who stole military technology and outran professional mercenaries, is afraid of a little fishing."
I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not afraid. I just don't see the appeal of standing around waiting for fish that might never bite."
"Oh, they'll bite," he said with such confidence that I couldn't help but laugh. "And there's more to it than just standing around. It's about..." he paused, searching for words, "connection. To the water, to what's beneath it. To yourself."
"Sounds suspiciously philosophical for a mob enforcer."
His smile turned wry. "Even mob enforcers need hobbies."
The next morning dawned clear and cool, mist rising from the lake in ethereal tendrils. After checking on Stella—who was sleeping peacefully, her vitals stable—Royal led me to a weathered boathouse tucked against the shoreline.
"Chen's quite the sportsman," he explained, pulling out two fishing rods and a tackle box. "Or sportswoman, I guess."
I eyed the equipment skeptically. "I'm going to be terrible at this."
"Probably," he agreed cheerfully, handing me a rod. "But that's half the fun."
The small aluminum boat rocked gently as we pushed off from shore, Royal manning the oars with practiced ease. He navigated us to a quiet cove where the water darkened, indicating greater depth.
"Lesson one," he said, setting up my rod with expert fingers. "Casting. It's all in the wrist."
He demonstrated, the line arcing gracefully through the air before the lure landed with a soft plop some thirty feet away. When he handed the rod to me, our fingers brushed, sending an unexpected current up my arm that had nothing to do with fishing.
My first cast was predictably disastrous—the line tangled, the lure barely clearing the boat.
"Not bad," Royal lied, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
"Liar," I accused, but I was smiling too.
He moved behind me, his chest warm against my back as he positioned my arms. "Like this," he murmured, his breath tickling my ear. "Pull back, then forward with a snap of your wrist."
