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.”

She’s making a joke—I think—but all I hear is the part where she’s going to need her kit. “You’re doing it right now?” If she opens that case, she’s going to see that it’s not set right. Ivy’s the type of person to notice that kind of thing. And be suspicious of it. Then she’ll start adjusting the foam and if she adjusts the foam she could find the tape, and if she finds the tape, she’ll watch the tape, and if she watches the tape . . . Bentley’s words ring loud in my ear.

Whatever’s on that tape, Ivy can’t know about it. She needs to stay in the dark.

“Yeah. As soon as she’s done smoking the joint she just lit. I want to get it over with. I’m tired.”

“Then you should wait until tomorrow. Didn’t you just spend seven hours on some asshole yesterday?”

She’s walking toward me, her eyes on the case. “I’ll be fine. Speaking of some asshole, you haven’t done shit for your side all day, have you?” She glares at me with reproach as she leans down to reach for the handle.

My hand shoots under her arm, pulling her upright and to me. Thinking fast. “You’re right, I haven’t. Can you do it for me?”

“You’re a big boy. You can manage it.” She twists, trying to pull away from me.

I have no choice. I scoop her up by the armpits and carry her with ease to the adjoining bathroom.

“Don’t fucking manhandle me!” she snaps, shoving against my stomach the second I put her down. When I don’t even budge, she settles on shooting daggers at me with her eyes.

I say nothing as I span my arms across the width of the crammed space to slide both pocket doors closed. I reach over my head to yank my T-shirt off, then unbuckle my belt and jeans, and push them down an inch or two lower than I need to for the purposes of my tattoo.

Her eyes immediately drop to my chest and slip down, before she catches herself and averts her gaze.

But I don’t miss the hitch in her breath.

“Fine,” she snaps, spinning around to the sink to wash her hands. There’s really only standing room for one in here, giving me every excuse to be in her personal space. “I didn’t work on your body for seven hours so you can fuck up that piece of art. You can’t forget. Three times a day, especially with it being so fresh.”

I stare at her face in the mirror’s reflection as she lectures me, resting my hands on top of my head as I tower over her. I like it when she scolds me.

With the tap running, she turns around and begins gently—more gently than anyone might believe her capable of—rubbing the soap over the entire area, peeling back the elastic band of my briefs to get at the bottom without a word. This is her MO—cool and calm, indifferent. Unfazed.

But I feel the way her hands linger a little longer than necessary against my skin.

I see the way her gaze keeps flickering toward my briefs, where I’m already hard.

When she has coated the area with moisturizer, rubbing it in so carefully, not uttering a word, she softly says, “I’m finished.” She lifts her head to meet my gaze for a brief moment before shifting for the door, as if she’s going to leave.