She looks so effortlessly carefree, like the world never managed to stain her.
“Were you seriously thinking that?” she asks, flashing her white teeth. “That I’d be mad at you for killing Owen?”
A small laugh breaks from me, shaking loose from somewhere deep in my chest. Only now do I realize how absurd this all is—the conversation, the setting, the fact that we’re talking about murder like it’s gossip over drinks.
“Yes, actually,” I admit, letting my shoulders sink. “Maybe not for killing him… but for disobeying orders.”
Estella arches a brow, propping her elbow on the pillow. The dim light brushes her skin in gold as she leans closer, her fingers circling the nearly empty glass. Her gaze locks on mine, steady and sultry, and the air between us feels thick enough to taste.
“What orders?” she laughs, the sound slipping out soft and sharp all at once. Her tongue wets her lips, catching the glint of lamplight. “I haven’t given you any. We were sent to eliminate the target, and what or who gets hurt in the process isn’t our problem.”
A flicker of warmth rises through me, threading into my veins. It’s ridiculous, really, that a single line from her can make me feel like I’ve done something right. Like I’ve managed to create something that satisfies her.
She hums a random tune, low and careless, before lifting her glass and draining it. The blend of strong whiskey and the warmth in this room has made us both restless. We strippeddown to whatever was left—me in a black T-shirt and the same worn pants; her in a black tank top with thin straps and matching leggings that cling to her perfectly.
My eyes drag across her, tracing the pale lines of scars that cut across her skin. I’d only noticed the one on her shoulder before, but now I see more—the faint marks beneath her collarbone, another near her stomach, barely visible unless the light hits just right.
I know I shouldn’t stare. She’d knock my teeth out if she caught me. But curiosity burns through restraint, slow and insistent.
The questions rise, but I bite them back. Instead, I force my gaze away, scanning the room like I can distract myself with details. The wood-paneled walls glow under the lamplight, their knots and grains twisting like captured fire. Everything feels alive—the rug she moved from the center of the room to beneath the bed, the way her toes press into the plush surface, claiming it as if it belongs to her now.
And still, my mind circles back.
To her. Always to her.
Fuck.
She tastes like a slow-burning obsession, crawling beneath my skin, a current I cannot short-circuit. A vortex of danger and magnetic pull coils around me, tight and relentless. I told myself long ago that I had no weaknesses, that the world had been burned from me piece by piece.
But she is living proof that I was mistaken. She is my weakness, the woman I should approach with nothing but professional distance, yet every fiber of me rebels.
“So what did he tell you?” she asks at last, her words low and velvety, the kind of sound that curls in the air and lingers. It slices through my thoughts like smoke through light.
I shift in my place, my body tense, trying to ground myself against the sudden pull of her voice. Emphasis on trying.
Estella lifts her hand toward the bag of gummy bears we grabbed from the shop downstairs. Her fingers sift through the colorful pieces, finally selecting a single red one. She pops it into her mouth and chews deliberately, savoring the sweetness, before turning her gaze to me. Her eyes are silent but insistent, holding a question without speaking, waiting for something.
I blink up at her, trying to dredge the memory of her question from the haze of my thoughts. My throat is dry, my mind sluggish, weighed down by the lingering hum of alcohol still coursing faintly through my veins. My fingers twist together almost unconsciously, and I squint at her as if sheer focus could extract the question directly from the depths of her gaze.
She laughs again, and for a heartbeat, I forget to draw air into my lungs. The sound is light, melodic, almost human—but only almost. Estella inhabits a different plane. Flesh and blood, yes, but empathy does not dwell in her. She discovers beauty in destruction, and in the quiet aftermath of violence, she finds a laughter that is entirely her own.
I don’t know how we arrived at this point, how she became the single presence capable of stirring something real inside me. I have known emotion before, even believed I had been in love once, but this is not love.
This is something heavier, something that drags me toward her like gravity I cannot fight. Perhaps it is the danger she carries, or the way her eyes slice through every carefully constructed layer I hide behind. In her presence, the masks fall away, and for the first time, I feel as if I can finally stop pretending, as if all the lies I tell the world no longer have a place between us.
“Owen,” she repeats. “What did he tell you?” Her eyes glint with something teasing and dangerous. “I bet his mouth didn’t shut up all the way to the target.”
I exhale, finally catching up. “He talked plenty,” I admit. “Nothing worth remembering.”
She tilts her head, studying me. I can feel her gaze peeling away the lie, and I sigh, deciding to give in. “He told me you two were… involved.”
She leans forward, grabs another gummy bear, this time orange. “I figured. He’s still sore about it.”
My jaw tightens. The uninvited jealousy strikes fast, tingling in my voice before I can mask it. “What was it like?”
Her expression shifts, just barely. A small frown creases her brow as she shakes her head. “Bad,” she says, simple and flat. “Very bad.” She leans back, her gaze drifting to the ceiling. “He wanted to fix me. Thought I was something broken he could mend. I let him chase me for a while—it was amusing. But the worst part?” She pauses, eyes snapping to mine. “He didn’t know how to fuck.”
The words hang there, raw and unapologetic, crackling in the dim air between us like static.
