Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(62)

“Right. It’s just peachy,” I mutter sarcastically. Eying the doorway into the house, wondering how long I should wait before going after Sebastian.





TWENTY-FOUR


SEBASTIAN


I admire the California bum. He gets to live in a fairy-tale world, where he is free to take what he has in front of him for granted, where he has the luxury of choice. And as long as there are “sheep and puppets” like me, working within the shadows to keep him in the dark about the kind of evil that exists in this world, he’ll get to stay snug in his ideological fairy tale until he’s old and gray.

Or until someone crushes his larynx, which is what I almost did five minutes ago. That would have been twice today that I lost control due to pure emotion. I had no choice but to dismiss myself. I figured it would be impolite as a dinner guest to kill another dinner guest.

And I have something much more important to do anyway.

I close Ivy’s bedroom door and press my knee against it, to hold it shut. She’s still in the greenhouse. Likely ready to lunge across the table and choke our dinner companion. She’s not as concerned about being impolite. But I have a feeling it won’t be long before she comes to check on me; I saw the look on her face as I stood to leave.

So I need to hurry.

Setting her tattoo kit down on the floor in front of me, I flip open the latches. Inside, it looks exactly the way I saw it yesterday, except now the machine pieces are all safely secured within the custom cutouts in the black foam.

There’s only one possibility . . .

Holding my breath, I curl a finger around one corner of the foam insert and begin pulling it back. It’s definitely removable.

I lift the entire foam panel—tools and all—up . . .

And feel the grin of satisfaction spread across my face and relief slide through my limbs.

There, secured to the roof of the case with two strips of silver duct tape, is an unmarked videotape.

I was right. Just like Beijing.

And now I have exactly what Bentley wants. Another successful assignment. As soon as I get this to him I’m free to leave.

The floor in the hallway suddenly creaks, giving me only a second’s warning before someone twists the knob. “Sebastian?” I feel the door push against my knee.

Peeling the duct tape off will make too much noise. I’ll have to get the video later. “Hold on a sec.” I place the foam back into the case, but it isn’t sliding in as easily as it came out. Fuck. I’ll have to fix that as soon as I get a chance, too. As quietly as possible, I lock the latches and slide the case aside then open the door.

Ivy pokes her head in, her eyes narrowed with suspicion as they dart from me to the bed, where her bags of clothes sit. “What are you doing in here?”

I point down to the computer, tucked neatly into the corner next to the door. “Figured I’d stack it to get it out of your way.”

“Oh.” She frowns. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She still hasn’t come to terms with letting me do things for her. “You’re welcome.”

She bites her lip, and then smiles sheepishly. “I mean . . . thanks.” Stepping into her bedroom, she pushes the door shut. “I’m sorry about that, back there.”

“It was fine. I usually eat alone, so this was a nice change,” I say dismissively, ever aware of the kit and the videotape—my entire purpose for being in her life—sitting next to my feet.

When she looks at me with that curious frown pulling at her eyebrow, I know that I’ve admitted to something strange. Now she’s probably wondering why I’m always eating alone. Why I don’t have friends or family to eat with.

“Well, I wish you had blasted him.” She eases herself onto the bed and begins untying the laces of her boots. “He would have deserved it. He was insulting you and every other person who’s ever risked, or lost, his life. I’m sure having some bum tell you that there is no war, when you carry the scars to prove it exists, must make you angry.”

There’s really nowhere to go in this room besides the bed, so I lean back against the door as casually as possible. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it.”

She frowns, kicking off one boot, then the other. “So, you weren’t just ‘in the navy.’ You’re this super-elite soldier.”

I heave a sigh. It was a moment of weakness—and pride—that made me admit that. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Why don’t you like talking about it?” She’s not even looking at me when she asks that; she’s focusing on her laces instead. It’s so unlike her to seem shy, but so is asking personal questions. Up until now, she’s had a keen sense for touchy subjects and veered away whenever she sensed she’d hit too close to home. So to see her sitting on this bed now, frowning with curiosity, averting her gaze with hesitation . . . I’m guessing it’s a side of Ivy that most people don’t get to see.

And I’m afraid it’s a side of Ivy that actually cares.

I wish it was smart to let her care. I wish I knew how to let her get closer to me. “I just don’t.”

She purses her lips, her gaze lifting to meet mine. I see her vulnerability shuttering, her temperature cooling. The need to get to know me shrinking away.

“I promised Dakota I’d do her next piece for her tonight.” She stands and stretches her slender arms around in the air, rolling her shoulders to loosen them. “And if I have to listen to that ass during it, I’m going to kill him. Accidentally, of course.”