Chapter 16
Io knew it was her imagination that she could detect Cal’s breathing over the hum of the air conditioner.
They were in separate beds with too much space between them for that.
She might not actually hear him, but after the time they’d spent together, she knew the cadence of his sleep.
He was out cold. For now. If she shifted or made even the slightest noise, he’d be awake, pistol in hand or close enough to reach in a heartbeat.
The room was dark, lit only by the sliver of light spilling from the cracked bathroom door. Io stared at the ceiling, wishing she could fall asleep. It would make sense if she were anxious about her captivity, afraid to let her guard down. But that wasn’t why she was awake.
Cal had agreed to her concession today. Reluctantly.
Too bad he hadn’t been half as willing to compromise in Germany. He hadn’t even entertained the idea of negotiating something they could both live with. Something that might have saved their marriage.
That door was closed. Time to move on. Time to focus on the mission.
She didn’t want to endanger Frankie either. Io liked Archer’s people. She didn’t want to drag any of them into danger, and it was better if she stayed away from the archivist.
But historical research? That wasn’t her lane.
She was Archer’s intelligence agent. Current-day intel, not two-hundred-year-old mysteries.
She’d been sent to find Fuentes, not the Lost Treasure of Trujillo, and she had a sinking feeling that A la Sombra de la Misericordia Radiante belonged firmly in the history bucket.
Everything she knew about archives and museums came from working at the Paladin League.
And that was with a journalism degree. Cal didn’t have more experience than she did. His Special Forces medic training wasn’t going to help them in an archive.
First thing in the morning, she’d contact Archer. BD said the phone was secure, and Archer took security seriously. He could assign researchers in Los Angeles to dig into the name. She’d handle that tomorrow.
Tonight? Tonight was for mourning her marriage.
Being this close to him still hurt her in ways she wished it didn’t. God, she couldn’t afford to want him, not when he’d already shown how little he really wanted her.
She hated how her heart couldn’t let go of him, wished she wasn’t still in love with him.
Cal had been willing to compromise for the op, but not for her. She’d been expendable. Less important than an arms dealer. She should be used to it. Her parents had lost interest in her the moment she stopped fitting their mold. Two strikes there. Her husband was strike three.
For months she’d told herself Cal was stubborn, that it wasn’t about her. But now that excuse was gone. It wasn’t his stubbornness.
It was her.
Always had been.
Her eyes were dry, her chest tight. She wasn’t going to cry. She’d wasted enough tears on Cal. Now she knew. Now she could move on. Now she could focus on her life.
Io hated that it still hurt. Toughen up. When this was over and her sister was safe, she’d get the name of that divorce attorney Ayla mentioned and file. Hanging on was stupid.
Against her will, her hand rose to the wedding rings on the chain around her neck. When she got home, they were going in a drawer. It was time.
“Are you okay, Io?” Cal asked quietly.
She jerked, surprised, but she shouldn’t have been. He slept lightly. “Fine.” Her voice was thick, but maybe he’d think it was sleep.
“You sure? PTSD is a bitch.”
She wanted to deny it. It wasn’t that bad. But her reaction to the house said otherwise. She’d have to work through it when she got home.
“I’ll talk to someone. I have a therapist.”
“Other ops gone wrong?”
Io let out a humorless huff. “More like issues my parents left me with.”
Silence. Then, “Did they hurt you?” Cal’s voice was dangerous.
“Nothing like you’re thinking.”
“Explain it to me.”
He didn’t demand it. If he had, she’d have shut him down. It was the promise of hell in his tone—the sense that if she didn’t tell him, he might get on a plane and confront her parents—that made her speak.
“My parents didn’t want children.” She answered the question before he could ask it. “Yes, I know that for a fact. I overheard my grandparents talking about it when Ayla and I were staying with them. I was six or seven.”
Her fingers tightened around the rings, then she forced them to relax. “Your next question is why have kids if they didn’t want them. I don’t know. Maybe they were tired of being asked. Maybe they thought they’d change their minds once we were born. They didn’t.”
Cal’s bed creaked. He’d turned toward her, propped on one elbow, waiting.
“We weren’t abused. We weren’t neglected.
We had nice clothes, nice toys, plenty to eat.
We even had their attention when we were little and Mom could dress us alike.
” Io’s lips twitched. “You should’ve seen the birthday parties.
But when I insisted on picking my own clothes, they lost interest. They wanted pedigree poodles to parade around.
Once Ayla and I stopped matching, stopped getting the oohs and ahhs, they checked out. ”
And only showed mild interest when Io joined them in their adrenaline-fueled hobbies. Ayla hadn’t gotten even that much. But Cal didn’t need that detail.
The silence stretched. She glanced over.
“If your parents weren’t interested, couldn’t they have handed you off to your grandparents?” Cal’s voice was rough.
“Both sets of grandparents were close friends. They did everything together. Including flying to an air show in Oshkosh.” Io braced herself. “Their plane crashed shortly after takeoff. All four died. I was nine.”
Even prepared, the pain stabbed through her. Her grandparents had loved her exactly as she was. After they died, there were no more calm weeks while her parents traveled. She and her twin were brought along. Io still loved traveling. Ayla was afraid of flying.
“I’m sorry,” Cal said quietly.
“It was a long time ago.” She said it evenly, as if she were over it. She wasn’t. Probably never would be. After that, she and Ayla had only had each other. Now Ayla was getting married, having a baby. Io was on her own.
Her twin would try to be there for her, but Ayla’s family needed to come first. That was right. That was how it should be. Io was the tough twin. The one who did the hard things. Like being alone.
“You never shared any of this.” Cal’s voice was even, without accusation.
“We weren’t together long enough to get deep into our pasts. I know nothing about your family either.”
Even in the shadows, she saw him go rigid. “We had other things to talk about.”
His tone made it clear she’d get nothing more. Io swallowed the sting. It didn’t matter. Nothing between them mattered anymore.
She stared at the ceiling again, grateful for the dark. It hid the tears she refused to shed. Her chest was so tight she could barely breathe. When she got home, she’d put her wedding rings in a box labeled lessons learned.
After she filed for divorce, she’d talk to her therapist about Cal too. She should’ve done it already. Maybe then she wouldn’t have clung to the fantasy that they could fix things.
Maybe she wouldn’t still be in love with a man who didn’t love her back.
The thought hit harder than she expected—sharp, unwelcome, too honest. She froze, breath catching, because she hadn’t meant to think it. Hadn’t meant to admit it. Not even to herself.
God. She still loved him.
The realization punched through her chest, hot and humiliating. She’d spent months pretending the feeling had faded, that she’d buried it, that she’d moved on. But the truth was right there, raw and undeniable.
She pulled the covers to her chin, trying to convince herself she could still close the book on their marriage without it tearing her apart. But she didn’t believe it.
Cal’s bed creaked again. In her peripheral vision, she saw him roll onto his back and pull up his blanket. He’d drift off in a moment. She envied how easy it was for him to let go of things she still bled over.
If she was alone, she might scream out the word fuck. The need to move, to pace, to berate herself for her stupidity warred with pain. Still being in love with him was a one-way ticket to hell.
The man she loved would never love her back. Not the real her.
Maybe that was the worst part. She’d shown Cal everything she was.
And he’d said no thanks.
Io was up before Cal, though his eyes opened the instant she threw back the blanket. Now that she was showered, dressed, and ready for the day, he’d gone into the bathroom. It gave her a few minutes alone. She needed them.
She hadn’t slept. Just a handful of shallow catnaps.
The rest of the night she’d spent compartmentalizing, locking down every emotion she couldn’t afford to feel.
Going forward, Cal was her coworker. Not her husband.
Not the man she loved. A teammate. Nothing more.
It was the only way to get through this op without walking away shattered.
She took a sip from her water bottle, reached for her mobile, and tapped in the number. Archer answered on the first ring.
“Good morning, Iona,” he said smoothly. “Is everything all right?”
“It is. Sorry for using the emergency number. It’s the only one I have memorized, and I didn’t want to add contacts to a phone that belongs to the team, not the Paladin League.”
A brief pause. Io rarely opened a conversation in full business mode. Blame Cal. Sticking to the op was how she was holding it together.
“What can I do for you?” Archer asked.
She explained the scrap of paper, her uncertainty—clue, red herring, or homework assignment. Cal came out of the bathroom mid-report and leaned against the jamb. Io didn’t acknowledge him.
“I need some research done,” she said. “Can you assign someone to look into it?”
“What was written on the paper?”
“A la Sombra de la Misericordia Radiante.” She kept her voice neutral. Archer would ask for her theories if he wanted them. She wasn’t going to steer the research.
“In the Shadow of Radiant Mercy,” he translated. “Interesting.”
“Does it ring a bell?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“But?” Io prompted.
“But if you want to pursue it on your end, I’d begin with churches, convents, monasteries. It has the feel of a religious artwork.”
“I thought the same. Assuming it wasn’t planted for us to find.”
“There is that problem,” Archer agreed. “You didn’t contact Francesca?”
Io hesitated. “I considered Frankie—this is her wheelhouse—but things are a little hot for me.” She gave him a quick summary of the Russian mob encounter. “I didn’t want to risk leading them to her.”
“Understandable,” Archer said, though some of his smoothness slipped. “I don’t want you in danger either. If this escalates, you and your sister return to Los Angeles. I’ll find trustworthy bodyguards. You have my word.”
“I’ll let you know if that becomes the only option. BD’s team is watching Ayla, and I have the team medic with me. I’ll be fine.”
Cal straightened from the doorjamb, frowning. Io ignored him.
“I’ll let you know if my researchers identify anything,” Archer said, and ended the call.
Io put the phone away and looked up at Cal. “Are you ready to roll?”
“Who were you talking to? Archer?”
“Yes. Neither of us have the skills to research historical material. He’s putting his experts on it.”
Cal’s frown deepened. “Why’d you call me the team medic?”
Io stood, met his gaze without flinching. “Archer doesn’t need to know you’re my soon-to-be-ex husband.” Saying it out loud shouldn’t hurt, not anymore. But it did. She swung her pack over her shoulder and walked to the door. “Let’s move.”