And what do you want?
You.
Christ.
Women didn't talk to me like that. Didn't look at me like that. Most people—men and women both—sensed the danger and kept their distance. Polite. Careful. Aware on some instinctive level that getting too close to Kane Black was a bad idea. A survival instinct honed over millennia whisperingpredatorwhen they looked at me.
But not Ella.
Ella had looked straight at the predator and decided she wanted in, anyway.
Because she's grieving, my brain supplied coldly, cutting through the heat.
Because she's vulnerable.
Because taking advantage of a woman in mourning makes you exactly the kind of man St. Paul's tried to turn you into. The kind who sees weakness and exploits it without hesitation.
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, jaw tight enough to ache.
That was it, wasn't it? The real reason I'd walked away.
Ella was in Paris because her sister had died. Suddenly. Traumatically. She was alone in a foreign city, overwhelmed by bureaucracy and loss and questions that might not have good answers. She was raw. Exposed. Looking for something—anything—to make her feel less alone. Less broken.
And I?—
I was dangerous.
Not just physically, though there was that. I knew a hundred ways to hurt someone, kill someone, make them disappear without a trace. Violence lived in my bones. It was the firstlanguage St. Paul's had taught me, and I'd never fully unlearned it. Never wanted to.
Fighting was the only thing that made sense anymore. The only place where the rules were clear and the stakes were obvious and you didn't have to pretend to be something you weren't.
But more than that, I was emotionally dangerous.
I didn't do relationships. Didn't do connection. Didn't let people close enough to matter because people who mattered became liabilities. Weaknesses. The kind of thing enemies exploited without mercy. The kind of thing that got you killed—or worse, gotthemkilled while you watched and couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.
And Ella?—
Ella deserved better than what I could offer.
She deserved someone stable. Someone whole. Someone who didn't wake up most nights ready to fight ghosts that had been dead for years. Someone who could give her softness and safety and all the normal things normal people wanted from relationships.
Flowers. Dinner reservations. Conversations that didn't involve violence or death or the best way to disappear when someone was hunting you.
Not someone like me.
Not someone who'd spent the previous night beating men unconscious for entertainment. Who found relief in violence. Who felt most at home in underground fight clubs and war zones instead of cafés and polite conversation.
What the hell was I thinking?
That I could be normal for her? That I could pretend to be the kind of man she needed?
Ridiculous.
The Sanctuary came into view, its pale stone façade blending seamlessly with the buildings around it. Elegant. Refined. Everything I wasn't.
I climbed the steps and pressed my palm to the door. The lock recognized the black card in my pocket and clicked open with a sound like a whisper.
Inside, the air was warm and quiet. Civilized.
