He heads for the elevator, still muttering under his breath about yoga pants and emotional damage, and disappears behind the sliding doors with one final glance at Mary.
“Try not to fall in love while I’m gone.”
The door shuts.
The room goes quiet.
And I’m alone with her.
I stand here.
Silence presses in.
Mary’s still where I left her, curled on the couch like the fight finally left her body. The white blouse is soaked, speckled red along the collar and sleeve. A smear of blood streaks across her forearm, another at her temple. Her bra’s visible where the fabric’s torn, one cup hanging loose, straps tangled.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair.
I turn away, trying to distract myself, anything to stop staring at her.
My eyes drift around the apartment. The place is bigger than I expected; open layout, concrete floors polished to a high shine. Minimalist, masculine. A mix of steel and soft gray tones. A bedroom tucked behind a sliding glass door, a kitchen that looks untouched. The kind of place I’d have chosen, if I ever chose anything.
Apparently, my men know me better than I thought.
First thing I do is strip off my jacket, blood-soaked from the hitman, and head to the bathroom—a black marble cave, chrome fixtures gleaming like weapons. Double sinks, a glass shower big enough for sins, a freestanding tub. My reflection glares back: scarred chest, tattoos snaking down my arms, a ledger of every kill.
I’m a killer, not her savior.
Suka.Maybe this is just a cleanup. Maybe she saw something. Caught something that we’ve missed.
So, yeah, maybe I’m doing this because she’s a loose end.Maybeit’s strategy.
Not because she passed out with her head on my chest and made my fucking hands shake.
I roll my neck, grab a towel from the shelf, and soak one corner in warm water. No soap. Too harsh for broken skin. She’ll already bruise. No need to sting her, too.
I bring the towel back to her slowly.
Mary’s sprawled, unconscious, a vision that stops my breath. Her white blouse is a wreck, torn open, blood smeared on her face, hands, chest—not hers, but his, the bastard I shot. Her curves are fucking devastating, hips flaring wide, a soft dip at her waist, breasts straining her bra, full and heavy, begging to be touched.
I walk in slowly, taking it in.
Her breath is soft now, shallow. The side of her face is blotchy from dried tears, her hair clinging to her cheeks. She didn’t just faint. Her body shut down. Full override.
She looks smaller than I remember. Folded into herself.
Still holding the purse.
“Let go,malyshka,” I murmur, easing her fingers loose one at a time.
I slide the purse from her grip and set it on the floor beside the couch.
I kneel, towel in hand, and start at her neck, gentle, controlled, wiping away the blood at her jawline, slow, methodical.
The blood’s mostly dried, flaked near her ear, smeared under her jaw. I press the warm cloth there, wipe slowly.
I tell myself I’m just cleaning her up.
But my hand’s already moving lower. And I’m not thinking about blood anymore. She doesn’t wake, just sighs, a small sound, like the tail end of a sob.
