"It's getting worse. More frequent. More vivid." I run my hand through my hair. "At first it was just flashes. Fragments. But now... now I'm remembering whole scenes. Things I've done."
"What kind of things?"
I want to lie. Want to soften it. But she deserves the truth.
"Killing people. Disposing of bodies. Violence." The words taste like ash. "I remembered why I knew to wipe down the car, Isabella. Because someone taught me. Showed me how to cover up evidence, how to make problems disappear."
She's very pale, but she doesn't pull away. "What else?"
"I remember taking orders. Following instructions. There were men—older men—who would tell me what needed to be done. And I'd do it." I close my eyes, seeing it all play out. "I was good at it. I didn't question. Didn't hesitate."
"You think you were an enforcer. Someone who did the dirty work."
"I know I was." I open my eyes, looking at her. "The things I remember doing, the way I moved through that world. I was a weapon. Someone's weapon. Pointed at problems and told to eliminate them."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing. "Do you remember whose weapon? Who you worked for?"
"No. That's still blank. I remember faces sometimes, but no names. No context." I laugh bitterly. "Just the violence. Always the violence."
"Is there more? Other things you haven't told me?"
I think about the memories that have surfaced in the past few days. The ones I've been keeping to myself because they're too dark, too terrible.
But she deserves to know. Deserves to understand exactly what kind of man she's chosen.
"I remember a basement," I say quietly. "Concrete floor. A man tied to a chair. Someone had given me an order—make him talk. Find out what he knew. So I did." I have to stop, the memory so vivid I can smell the blood. "I beat him. Broke his ribs, his fingers. Kept going until he told me what I needed to know."
Isabella's hand tightens on mine, but she doesn't let go.
"I remember standing over bodies," I continue. "Men I'd killed with my own hands. And feeling nothing. No guilt. No remorse. Just checking to make sure the job was done so I could report back."
"Lupo—"
"I remember being in the back of a car, watching someone's house. Waiting for the target to come home. Knowing what I was going to do. Knowing I'd done it dozens of times before." My voice cracks. "I was a killer, Isabella. A professional. Someone who hurt people for money. For orders. For—I don't even know what for. I just did it."
She's silent. I can feel her trying to reconcile the man sitting in front of her with the monster I'm describing.
"I'm not a good person," I say. "Whatever I'm trying to be now, whoever I want to be with you and Elena—that's not who I really am. I'm someone who killed without remorse. Who saw violence as just another job."
"Did you enjoy it?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"The killing. The violence. Did you enjoy it?"
I think about the memories. Try to find pleasure in them. Satisfaction. But all I find is... emptiness.
"No," I say slowly. "I didn't enjoy it. But I didn't hate it either. It was just... what I did. Like breathing. Like it was who I was supposed to be."
"And now?"
"Now the thought of it makes me sick." I look down at my hands—hands that have killed so many people. "But the knowledge is still there. The skills. If someone threatened you or Elena, I wouldn't hesitate. I'd kill them just as easily as I killed Draco. Maybe easier."
"That’s good," she says simply.
I stare at her. "Good?"
"I don't need you to be a saint, Lupo. I need you to be someone who can protect us. Who won't hesitate when it matters." She squeezes my hand. "You're right that you're dangerous. That you've done terrible things. But you're dangerous for us now. For Elena and me. And I'll take that over being defenseless any day."
