He’s had worse.
I don’t doubt it.
Julian Cross is a liar.
A manipulator. A professional illusionist wrapped in cheap sarcasm and a body built toruinmen like me.
And yet…
I trust him.
More than I should. Maybe more than I ever have anyone.
Andfuck,maybe I hate him for that.
I want to blame him for getting shot. For being sloppy. For making mecare.
But deep down, I’m not sure he was.
What if hewantedto take a hit? To prove something? To throw me off?
Is that who he is, or am I just losing my grip trying to figure him out?
I stare at him now, sprawled in my bed like a broken piece of art.
No cuffs, just skin and blood and silence.
The kind of silence that makes you question everything you thought you knew.
I lean closer, brushing the sweat-damp hair off his brow.
His skin is warm. Too warm. His lips part slightly as he exhales, twitching like he’s caught in some fever dream.
“Who the hell are you?” I whisper.
But I already know the answer.
A threat.
A temptation.
AdistractionI should’ve put down days ago.
And the only person alive who still makes me feel human.
Even if heisthe one sent to destroy me.
I watch him a moment longer.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
Stillmine.
But it won’t mean a goddamn thing if I don’t find the bastard who pulled the trigger.
I rise from the chair with slow precision, my bones aching from hours of stillness. My hand lingers on the edge of the mattress, one last brush of fingers against his wrist. Still warm.
