And in return, I’ll get what I need: the truth. About why she’s here, what her father wants, and how to stop it.
Then maybe—if I’m smart—how to burn this obsession out of my system before it takes the last piece of me that still feels human.
Chapter Eighteen
Rey
Aric slammed the door in my face before I could even finish the question.
Cool. That went well.
I stand there a second longer than I should, my hand half raised, as if I might knock on the bathroom door and try again.
“You know,” a voice says from behind me, “some people would take that as a sign.”
I spin around to find Ziva leaning against her doorframe, a toothbrush hanging out the side of her mouth like a lollipop. Her hair is a wild halo of electric-blue-tipped curls, her cat-print pajama shorts still riding low on her hips beneath her Endir hoodie. She looks equal parts chaotic and smug.
“He’s not a morning person,” I mutter.
“Neither am I,” she says, yanking the toothbrush from her mouth and pointing it at Aric’s door. “But at least I don’t weaponize it.”
I can’t help it—I snort.
Ziva grins, then drops the brush into a mug in her left hand. “Let me guess. You tried to say something human, and he responded with a death glare and a shut door?”
“Basically.”
She folds her arms. “Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone. Especially people he thinks might actually matter.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”
Ziva’s expression shifts—just a fraction—but it’s enough to pull me up short.
“Let’s just say Aric and I go way back. Used to be best friends when we were kids. Grade school stuff—he’d share his puddingcups, I’d let him cheat off my math homework. Totally platonic, tragically adorable.”
I blink. “So…what happened?”
Her mouth quirks, but there’s no humor in it. “His grandfather happened. One day, I just wasn’t welcome anymore. No explanation. No warning. Just a very polite reminder from a very old man that some names don’t mix.”
My chest tightens. “Because you’re—?”
Ziva gasps, hand to chest. “Mexican American?”
I wince. “I didn’t mean—”
She waves me off, laughing. “Relax, Snow White. No, apparently, I’m dangerous because I have opinions. Loud ones. Also, I once threatened to set a kid’s pants on fire for calling me spicy.”
“Did you actually?”
Ziva lifts a finger. “Allegedly.”
I chuckle. I can’t help it. There’s something disarming about her, like she’s already decided I’m not a threat, not competition, just…someone to root for. She doesn’t know how rare that is.
“I’m not into Aric,” I say before I can overthink it. “Whatever you saw in the hall—he slammed the door in my face five seconds later.”
Ziva raises an eyebrow like she’s heard that one before. “Not saying I care, but if I did? I’d tell you to be careful. That kind of power doesn’t come free.”
I nod slowly. “Good thing I’m not looking for handouts. Just answers.”
