“In theory, yes. It would be worth little now.” He smooths my hair back as I let my hand drop to his chest. “I’m sure you have more questions, but now I need something from you.”
I tense, prepared to field an inquisition about my mission, which is more complicated than what he shared. His admission was priceless, but it was about the past. Mine would be regarding the present, and no matter how much I adore that family out there or respect Axel, I have a harrowing decision to make. And now isn’t the time.
He gathers a few of my rogue tears on his thumb. “You told me why you became an assassin. Take a seat and tell mehow.” When he notices the surprise on my face, he tacks on, “What I divulged was in essence how I became who I am. It’s a fair trade.”
It is fair. He’s honorable—as much as people in our world can be. It makes me wonder if he’d be able to kill me if I betrayed him. I suspect he could, but that it would wound him. Maybe that’s all I could hope for in anyone. Tripp and my father wouldn’t offer me more than that. This is who we are.
He steps away, gesturing to the love seat before he makes his way to the bar. I want to skip this part, ignore the ways our lives clash, and just get lost in him.
The conversation I overheard in the restroom instantly taunts me.“I heard he makes the women sign an NDA, never entertains someone more than once, and never kisses on the mouth.”
We are plainly messier than he’d prefer, so even the prospect of one night together is improbable.
I make myself comfortable where he suggested, soaking in his room, which is an apartment in itself. We’re in what looks like a library—cozier than an office and more like a living room—lined with tall shelves of books and furnished with a love seat, accent tables, and two plush chairs. The bar is practically a minikitchen. I can see a sliver of his bedroom beyond an open sliding door—even the sliver reveals how massive the space is. It’s less Art Deco in here and more warmth and cozy grandeur—wood floors and ceiling beams, amber lighting, soft whites and grays, and deep brown leather furniture that is a buttery hug.
It’s the side of him he doesn’t share with the world.
His sanctuary.
“You have a lot of books,” I say while he pours our drinks. “Have you read all of them?”
“Yes. Some people go to college. Others buy libraries.”
He’s joking, but it really is like a small library. And I educated myself with the same method—consuming every piece of literature I could get my hands on, in every genre imaginable. Based on our exchanges, this is somewhat expected yet still impressive.
He returns with a glass of wine for me and a snifter of cognac for him, taking a seat across from me in one of the chairs. Disappointment lashes me. Despite the intimacy we just shared by the door and all the times we’ve been drawn to each other, he’s still intent on keeping his distance. It’s for the best, but the ache I have for him grows fiercer by the day.
He cocks an eyebrow, impatient for me to begin but too dominant to waste another word on a demand. And I hate him again for how sexy he is, with his black button-up rolled to his elbows so his corded tan forearms are on display. His collar open, revealing a hint of ink that I’m itching to study. His long, toned legs, spread wide in his dress pants, enhancing his commanding presence. His ash-brown hair, with silver specks, dusts his temple. And his eyes are midnight skies, haunted vows, and a storm in the ocean.
And I want to scream. For who I am and what I do and why I’m here. For all the reasons I can’t give in to my urges and enjoy him. For the confusion of feeling like a traitor to my family afterhaving spent an evening with one I was instantly determined to preserve. I have never been surrounded by such freedom, joy, and love. It’s unlikely I ever will be again.
I’m so tired.
But I don’t share any of that because this isn’t the place, though there is no place that I could safely reveal that regret.
Since I owe him something for gifting me the answers I craved for two decades, I give him what he requested. “My father trained me—for protection purposes. And I was an incredible student. Driven. Single-focused. Fueled by a desire to be the best, to forget, to find a place where I fit. By twelve, I was an incredible shot. By fifteen, I’d earned a black belt in numerous martial arts. By seventeen, I’d mastered my fifth language. I could keep up with my father’s … colleagues.”
I choose my words carefully, even though it’s plausible that he knows about our covert training camp. “Regardless of some belief from his colleagues that I would make an excellent asset, he refused to let me even consider it.”
A flicker of relief washes over Axel’s features, which seems incongruent with his question. “You went against his wishes?”
“Kind of.” I sip my wine, composing myself for the part of my history that I’m a bit embarrassed about. “When I was nineteen, I got involved with one of his colleagues. He was fourteen years older than me, charismatic, one hell of an assassin. We snuck around together on and off for months. One week, when my brother was traveling, I told my father I was going with him to lie on the beach. But really, I joined the guy I was involved with on his job. He set it all up.”
A blend of both curiosity and wrath stains Axel’s face. He’s always so far ahead of everything.
Not bothering to hide this part since he alluded to his darkest moment, I bob my head to his silent insight. “I was capable, but easily manipulated. So much of what he said was right that itconfused things. Even at my young age, I was one of the most skilled among the group of assassins we knew. I was quick on my feet. But my skills were always left to training. He convinced me that my father was holding me back. Because I was a girl. Because he didn’t believe I had what it took. And I bought it.”
“So, you started working with thiscolleagueof your father’s?”
“Only on one job. Well, he took me with him once before on a trial run,” I correct. “An easy mission, just to see. He did everything else for that. All I was charged with was the final kill shot. The first time can be hard. Not everyone can handle taking a life.”
“And was it? Hard for you?” His face is neutral, betraying nothing.
“No,” I tell him honestly, though I don’t add that I saw my mother’s face in every victim and her killer in every mark.
Maybe he knows.
He dips his chin, so I continue, “He’d gotten himself in trouble with a client. He had signed on to be their asset for five years, and a year into the job, he got sloppy, so they weren’t happy with him. I didn’t know any of that. He invited me to assist, told me the men we were killing were monsters—traffickers, like the first mark for the trial run had been. He even showed me pictures of some of the imprisoned women. It was the first time I’d seen that type of horror. Well—” I cut myself off from admitting that I’d seen the pictures of my mom because Axel already seems to be shouldering the evil his father carried out.
