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I kiss her shoulder to hide my wince as I roll off her.

Even removing the condom is too much right now. Like it’s a monumental deal.

She yawns. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”

I’m fucking sore already.

But I’m not telling her that.

Instead, I make a grunting sound.

“I think I liked you better when you were fucking me. You talked.” She looks over at me. “Said actual words.”

“I’m tired.”

She rolls, throwing her leg over mine. Her head rests over my heart, hand on my chest.

“Goodnight, Roman.”

I feel like an asshole when I say, “Goodnight, Chaos.”

I know what I have to do, and it doesn’t involve sleeping beside her.

Her lashes rest on her cheek, pink lips parting.

Damn, I wish I could stay here with her.

But I know I can’t.

I’m a hitman.

A murderer.

I killed two people tonight. Only one of them for money. The other guy... well, he was a liability.

I glance down at her.

Like she is.

Something cold settles in my stomach.

No. Not like her.

The heart beating inside my chest squeezes, proving to me it’s not as dead and unfeeling as I believed.

For the first time in a very long time, I don’t want to leave.

But I must.

She doesn’t belong in my world.

Hell, she’d get herself injured with that fearless, chaotic nature of hers. Or worse.

But I can’t think about that.

Not when I’m planning my exit strategy.

I lie on her bed, the bedside lamps on the nightstands casting light over us. This would be easier if she had turned them off. But she didn’t.