Midday sunlight poured through the hotel curtains in thick, warm slabs.
Thea Queen—who had been unconscious for the better part of a full day and night—opened her eyes.
The drunkenness had finally drained out of her. She lay still, blinking, staring at Jack Kadere's sleeping face inches from hers, his arm draped over her waist. The sequence of events replayed in a disjointed reel: hauled to the police station, then "kidnapped" by a man who could move like a bolt of lightning, then watching him do things that belonged in science fiction, then learning the truth about her own parentage, then drinking until the world went soft and dark. It had all happened so fast, one thing crashing into the next, that she hadn't had time to process any of it properly.
One thing she knew for certain: she did not want to go home.
Brrring. Brrring. Brrring.
The phone jolted her. Jack Kadere's eyes opened—instantly awake, no transition, no grogginess—and found hers.
"Morning."
He said it the way someone comments on the weather, then rolled over, swung his legs off the bed, and stood to find his phone. Naked.
Thea's first instinct was to look away. They were both bare, and this was—candid, to put it mildly. But Jack moved through the room without a shred of self-consciousness, scratching his jaw, scanning the nightstand for the buzzing phone, and something about that total lack of modesty made her feel like she'd be the awkward one if she hid her eyes. Rebellious-teenager logic kicked in. Instead of turning away, Thea lifted her chin and looked at him with a deliberate, practiced composure she didn't quite feel.
Lean in clothes. Without them, the muscle was obvious—defined shoulders, flat stomach, the kind of build that only showed itself stripped down. And below that, hanging heavy between his thighs—
Thea caught herself staring and didn't stop.
"News?" Jack uncapped a bottle of wine from the minibar, took two long swallows, and pressed the phone to his ear.
"We found Harrison Wells's body." Felicity's voice carried the careful cadence of someone who still didn't believe her own findings. "Right here in Starling City. Fifteen years ago, Wells was a rising name in the city's scientific community. Then there was a car accident—his wife died, and he left Starling City afterward. We searched near the crash site, ran the remains through forensic identification, and it's confirmed. It's him. The real Doctor Harrison Wells."
Dead for fifteen years. Someone else wearing his face, living his life, running his lab—for a decade and a half.
"Keep the body preserved. I'll come pick it up later." Jack's mouth curved into a thin, satisfied line.
Reverse-Flash. Let's see you explain this one.
"Are you in Starling City too?" Felicity pressed. "And did you actually kidnap Oliver Queen's sister?"
"Guilty on both counts." Jack glanced sideways at Thea, who was sitting up in the sheets now, watching him. "Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow. He came to Central City to help The Flash set a trap for me, so I decided to return the favor. Don't get involved—she's perfectly safe. Is Catwoman there?"
"She is."
The line rustled, and then Selina's voice cut through. "Jack Kadere."
"I'm calling Wayne Enterprises after this. You can head to Gotham now—what you want will be waiting. And I know Felicity told you why I left so suddenly, so—I'm sorry. Genuinely."
A beat of silence. "You're apologizing? You—this absolute lunatic—actually know the word?" Selina's tone was equal parts disbelief and grudging amusement. "Fine. Just don't jerk me around this time."
"Go." Jack laughed and hung up.
The next call was to Talia. Years since they'd spoken, but Talia recognized his voice on the first syllable. Jack leaned against the window frame and laid out what he wanted with the casual ease of a man who'd been leveraging people since before he could drive. Talia cursed him—fluently, viciously, in at least two languages—and then agreed. Jack ended the call.
Thea sat cross-legged on the bed, the sheet bunched in her lap, watching him. Corpses. Extortion. Calls placed with the same breezy tone most people used to order takeout.
He was dangerous. That much was obvious.
But he hadn't hurt her. Hadn't even raised his voice at her. And that gap between what he clearly was and how he'd treated her kept the fear at a manageable distance.
"What are you going to do next?" she asked.
"Depends on you." Jack crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. His thumb traced along her cheekbone—light, almost idle. Thea's neck tensed; she wanted to flinch, to duck, but some stubborn part of her held still. She met his eyes and didn't move.
"If you want to go home, I'll mess with Oliver a little more and then drop you off. You heard the call—I've got other things to entertain me. But if you're not ready to go back yet, you come with me, and they can keep searching Starling City until their boots wear out."
"I'll come with you." No hesitation.
"Perfect." Jack grinned, stood, and walked to the bathroom. The shower ran. Twenty minutes later he emerged dressed, hair damp, and led Thea out of the hotel.
---
The restaurant was mid-range—white tablecloths, real silverware, the smell of grilled meat and fresh bread drifting from the kitchen. Enough to be comfortable without attracting attention.
Thea ate like she hadn't seen food in a week. She tore through a steak, half a basket of bread, a side salad she barely chewed. Jack kept pace with her in volume but not in style—his knife and fork moved with an easy precision that made Thea look feral by comparison.
"Done?" Jack asked after a while, setting his napkin on the table.
Thea leaned back and patted her stomach. "Full."
"Good." Jack's expression shifted—still amused, but with something sharper underneath. "Stay calm in a minute. Don't be scared."
Thea frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means someone's here to rescue you."
The words hadn't finished leaving his mouth when a fwipp cut through the air and an arrow punched through the front window, streaking straight at Jack's head. He tilted sideways—barely, an inch—and the arrow buried itself in the wall behind him with a solid thunk, the shaft still vibrating.
Screams erupted. Customers scrambled for the exits, chairs toppling, plates crashing to the floor. Then the front windows exploded inward—crash, crash, crash—three panels of floor-to-ceiling glass shattering in rapid succession. Black-clad figures vaulted through the gaps, boots crunching on broken glass. Compound bows drawn. Curved swords sheathed at their hips. Masks covering everything below the eyes. League of Assassins, every last one of them.
Within seconds the restaurant had emptied of civilians. Only Jack's table remained occupied. Twenty—maybe thirty—assassins formed a tight ring around it, arrowheads glinting under the overhead lights, all of them trained on Jack Kadere.
Then two figures walked in through the shattered entrance.
One wore the black uniform of the League. The other wore green.
Jack brought his palms together in a slow, deliberate clap. "Malcolm Merlyn. Oliver Queen." He looked between them, grinning. "You two actually joined forces. Which means you've already unmasked for each other—and Thea's parentage is out in the open too, I'd imagine."
He paused. The grin widened.
"But are you really planning to work together?" Jack leaned back in his chair, arms spread along the backrest. "Oliver—this is the man who sank the Queen's Gambit. The man who killed your father. The architect behind every single name in that little notebook of yours." His gaze drifted to Merlyn. "And Malcolm—you've got a perfectly good scheme to level the Glades still running, don't you? Your wife's murder to avenge? Busy schedule."
A throwaway comment. Offhand. Almost bored.
Malcolm Merlyn and Oliver Queen looked at each other across the ring of assassins—and in the same breath, without a word exchanged, both stepped apart, opening distance between them like magnets reversed.