He bared his teeth, ignoring her use of his real name, ignoring the hook she wanted him to bite. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know you’re behind this.”
Another low chuckle. “I’m flattered, really.”
He slammed his fist down on the desk, rattling the monitors so hard that two of them went black. “Naomi has nothing to do with… us.”
“Oh, there’s still an us?”
His stomach roiled. He could hear her smiling. Could picture the razor-sharp slash of her mouth, the way she’d always gotten off on being in control. Even when he had her stripped bare, wrists tied above her head, a knife at her throat, she never let him have the last word. Sometimes he wondered if that was why he’d let her put a bullet through his shoulder in that basement in Bucharest. Maybe he’d wanted her to win.
The wind battered the Hub, rattling the windows. He wanted to put his fist through the glass, just to feel something sharp and real. Instead, he gripped the phone and forced himself to breathe.
“There was never an us. You made that perfectly clear when you sent me to prison to further your political career.”
Another drag on her cigarette. He could picture her in that glass tower in D.C., heels up on the desk, face all marble and poison. Playing him the way she always had.
“Don’t be dramatic, darling. You made your own bed. I just saw an opportunity and took it. Anyone in my position would have.”
He resisted the urge to hurl the phone against the wall. “I’m not interested in rehashing the past.”
A pause. She let the silence stretch, probably savoring the fact she had him right where she wanted.
“Tell me, Owen, do the men you work with at the Ridge know who you really are? Or did you spin them the same bullshit you tried to sell me all those years ago?”
He said nothing. Just stared at the screens, barely seeing them. His hands had gone numb. “Release Naomi. Now. Or the drive goes live.”
“You’re bluffing. You won’t release it because your crimes are on there, too.”
“And I’ve already served my time thanks to you. They can’t charge me twice.”
She went quiet. Not a breath or sound, just dead air on the line.
He could picture her thinking it through, cool and clinical. Calculating risk, damage, all the ways the truth might kill her.
On screen, lightning split the field behind the Hub. Crazy flickers of white, a digital afterimage that made every shadow in the room pulse with static. Cinder pressed up against his knees, tense, not so much as a whine now. She could feel the edge in him.
He waited.
“Cute,” Isolde finally purred. “You really care about this one, don’t you? Is she better than me, Owen?”
“She’s not you,” he said, each syllable ground out between his teeth. “That’s the entire point.”
Isolde’s laugh was sharp and sounded way too close. “Oh, darling. I hope you told her about Bucharest. About what really happened. Or is she still in that sweet phase where she believes you’re one of the good guys?”
He let the words roll off. None of it mattered. Not her games, her appetite for pain, or the way she always circled back to the wreckage between them. Only one thing mattered now.
“Bring her back, Isolde. Whole. Breathing. You know I’ll follow through.”
“I believe you will,” she purred. “The trouble is, I didn’t take your little FBI girlfriend. I have no use for her, professional or otherwise, so maybe you should look somewhere closer to home. Domestic enemies, not foreign. People in your own backyard.” She inhaled. Exhaled. “But this has been fun, Ghost. Thank you for reminding me you’re still alive. It’s… useful.”
She disconnected.
He dropped the phone on the desk, staring at it like it might bite him. He hated that snake of a woman with bone-deep fury, and would trust Satan himself before trusting her again, but…
He believed her.
She hadn’t taken Naomi.
It felt like he’d just cut his own throat for nothing.
