Chapter 9 #3
Who I can only assume is Rook, stands near the edge of the gallery, like he doesn’t quite belong to the room—or the century.
Long brown hair spills past his shoulders.
Sharp profile. Dark eyes that seem to catalog everything and everyone without effort.
He’s dressed in tight black jeans stretched over muscular thighs, a brown button-up rolled casually at the sleeves.
He looks…odd here. Like someone who crawled out of a different world and wandered into this one by mistake.
My pulse spikes. This is him. Jude killed his brother.
The man who might be our only hope.
I swallow hard, fingers tightening around my champagne flute as Micah shifts subtly closer to me.
“Stay calm,” he murmurs. “Let me get us close. When the moment opens, you step in.”
I nod, even if my pulse is pounding in my ears.
Smile.
Breathe.
Don’t think about Jude seeing photos of this.
Across the room, Rook turns slightly—and for just a second, his gaze flicks toward us, and something sharp passes through his eyes.
Micah doesn’t hesitate. He steps in with an easy smile, posture relaxed. “Rook,” Micah says, offering his hand. “Didn’t expect to see you here, but I guess that tracks.”
Rook looks at the hand first. Then at Micah’s face. His eyes narrow—not hostile, but not friendly, either. But finally, after a beat, he takes the handshake. “Micah Prescott,” he says. His voice is smooth. “Still breathing. I see that hasn’t changed.”
Micah’s smile doesn’t falter. “Somehow.”
“Still Nolan’s bitch?” he asks casually.
Micah snorts. “No. Thank hell.”
Rook’s gaze flicks to me. Then Heather. It lingers there longer than I like—not in a sexual way. In a cataloging way. “And who did you bring with you?” he asks.
Micah turns slightly, placing himself half a step in front of us. “Friends,” he says. “Actually, do you have a moment? Somewhere quieter?”
Rook studies him again. The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not quite a smile.
He’s probably in his mid-thirties and would be a handsome man if he weren’t so damn intense.
Just knowing he deals in the darkness makes me feel on edge.
He gestures lazily toward a massive painting along the far wall—dark oils, violent brushstrokes, something raw and furious barely contained beneath layers of polish.
“My work,” he adds, eyes flicking back to us. “Do you like it?”
The question lands squarely on Heather and me. Heather nods immediately with a warm, genuine smile. “It’s intense,” she says. “I particularly enjoy how it feels like it’s trying to escape the frame.”
I almost laugh at how refined she's trying to make herself sound.
Rook’s brows lift, just a fraction. “Good eye, lovely.”
My turn. I swallow, forcing my voice steady as I study the piece. “It feels honest,” I say. “Uncomfortable. Like it doesn’t care if you’re ready to look at it. It portrays a truth you likely aren’t ready to see. Very reflective of the real world.”
His eyes flash. “Exactly,” he says. He glances around once, then gestures toward a side corridor partially hidden by a marble column. “Come. We can talk where the parasites aren’t listening.”
We follow him, music dulling as we move farther from the main gallery. We stop near a recessed alcove where the lighting is low, and the walls are lined with sketches rather than finished pieces.
Private enough.
“Parasites?” I ask, genuinely intrigued by that comment.
Rook turns back to us, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Yeah. Most of those people in there are dressed in ugly fucking clothes whose cost could solve a lot of goddamn problems in this country. But instead, they parade them around, feeling fancy just because they’re wearing someone’s name. ”
My eyebrows rise, and I nod in agreement. “Huh, I like that.”
He stares at my face. “All right,” he says. “You’ve got my curiosity. And about five minutes of my time.”
Micah looks at me.
That’s the cue. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it might just stutter and stop. My hands feel cold. My mouth is dry. For a split second, doubt claws up my spine—What if he laughs? What if he says no? What if I make this worse?
Then I see Jude’s face in that photo with Adriana. Dead-eyed. Empty. Gone. And I step forward, into his personal space.
“My name is Emma Easton,” I say. My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. “I am here to ask a favor for Jude Graves.”
Rook’s expression changes instantly, like I’ve struck a nerve. “I know who you are,” he says quietly.
My mouth opens and closes in surprise. “You do? How?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re aware that he killed my brother, right?”
I swallow and nod.
“Well, after he did that on the behest of Nolan Marshall, of all fucking people, I combed through his life to see who was important to him. I saw you were an ex of his. A pretty one.”
I incline my chin, portraying a confidence I don’t feel. And he sees right through it. “And?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I considered killing you.”
My blood runs cold.
“Or selling you.”
Heather gasps softly behind me.
“Oh,” I stammer. “Well, that makes me uncomfortable.”
Rook chuckles. “Yeah, well, it’s nice to officially meet you, Miss Easton.”
I manage a smile. “Then you know who he worked for. You know that he was…Nolan’s bitch,” I reply, echoing his previous words.
My chest burns, but I push through it. “Now, he’s in someone else’s hands.
Someone way worse. And I...I believe you might be someone who could help us get him out of it alive.
He’s going to die if we can’t get to him. ”
“Who?” Rook asks swiftly.
I shift on my sore feet. “Alexei.”
“Morozov,” Micah finishes.
Rook’s jaw flexes.
“Do you know him?” I ask, interested in his reaction.
He sighs. “Unfortunately.”
Micah steps in smoothly beside me. “We want your help,” he says. “To erase everything they have on Jude. All of the blackmail. It’s how they are able to keep him as their fucking prisoner.”
“And why,” Rook asks slowly, eyes never leaving my face, “would I do that?”
I don’t blink. “Because we’ll pay you,” I say. “Four million dollars.”
Rook’s gaze flicks to Micah, then back to me. A corner of his mouth quirks up. “And if I say no?” he asks.
My throat tightens, but I hold his stare. “Then I keep fighting anyway,” I say. “Because loving him means trying. Even if it costs me fucking everything. He's only a killer because these people forced him to be one.”
Heather makes a soft noise behind me, but I’m not backing down. He needs to know how absolutely serious I am.
Rook’s gaze shifts. It isn’t warmth or mercy. Instead, it resembles interest. He exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re braver than most people who stand in front of me,” he says. “That’s for sure.”
A beat passes, and my gaze doesn’t leave his.
Then he smiles. For real this time. “Well,” he says softly, “this just got interesting.” His head tilts slightly, studying me. The silence stretches just long enough to make my palms start sweating. “You love him,” he says finally. It’s not a question.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
“And you know what he’s done,” Rook continues. “What he’s capable of. What kind of man he’s become working for men like Nolan Marshall and Alexei Morozov?”
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
“And you still want him back,” he says, taking a step toward me. “Not the version you remember. The one he is now.”
I don’t look away. “I want him. All of him.”
Something flickers across Rook’s face. He exhales slowly. “Then you’re either the most dangerous kind of woman,” he says, “or the most foolish.”
“Probably both,” I say quietly.
A sharp laugh leaves him. He shakes his head once. “I can’t help you,” he says simply.
The words hit like a punch to the chest.
My breath stutters, and my heart drops straight into my stomach. For a split second, I feel like I’m back in that hotel room—helpless, miles away from Jude, grasping at threads that keep snapping.
Micah’s jaw tightens beside me.
I open my mouth anyway. “If it’s because of your brother—”
“It isn’t,” Rook interrupts. His voice is flat now.
I swallow. “Then I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
He looks at me sharply. Then he adds, almost casually, “However.”
Hope flares in my chest at his tone.
“I have a cousin,” he says. “He works for someone else here in New York. Someone who has spent the better part of a decade cleaning up messes made by Russians. And my cousin happens to be an impeccable hacker. Annoyingly good. The kind of man who makes powerful people very fucking nervous. That’s why he works for who he works for. ”
My heart starts racing again, but this time it’s different. I don't want to get my hopes up just for them to be shot down.
“His boss,” Rook continues, eyes back on me, “is who you want. He can help you far better than I ever could.”
Relief floods me so fast it nearly knocks me over. “Thank you,” I breathe. “Thank you so much.”
Micah clears his throat. “How do we contact him?”
Rook’s mouth curves slowly as he looks at me. “You don’t.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I’ll text you.”
My brows knit together. “You…want my number?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “I’ll reach out to my cousin. When there’s something to say, you’ll hear from me.”
I take his phone, type my number into it, and hand it back.
“And the money—” Micah starts.
“Keep it,” Rook says, waving a hand. “You’ll need it for someone else, I’m sure.”
My mouth falls open. “Why?” I ask, genuinely stunned. “Why help us at all? Jude killed your brother.”
Rook tilts his head, studying me again. His gaze is intense and unflinching now. Honest in a way that makes me feel dissected. “My brother was an asshole,” he says plainly. “And he had it coming. If it wasn’t your boyfriend, it would have been someone else. Hell, perhaps even me.”
Heather makes a quiet, shocked noise.
“And,” Rook adds, softer now. “You’re an art therapist,” he says. “You use creation to help people survive their own minds.”
I nod slowly.
“I’m an artist,” he continues. “And my best friend killed himself three years ago. Mental health matters to me. More than revenge.”
Emotion swells in my chest. “I’m…I’m sorry about your friend.”
He inclines his head once in acknowledgment.
I hesitate, then ask the question that’s been burning in me since he said it. “So why didn’t you kill me?” I whisper. “Or sell me?”
Rook’s lips press together briefly. He steps back, creating distance again—reclaiming control.
“Because,” he says, turning away, “you seemed like a genuinely good person.” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at me one last time.
“A breath of fresh air,” he adds quietly, “when all I deal with is pollution.”
And then he walks back toward the gallery lights, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and my hands trembling.