Born in the shadow of a blacksite he was never supposed to leave, Axel was raised by men who taught him three languages and seven ways to kill with a paperclip. The government calls him an "asset." Targets call him the last face they see. His reputation is ghostwork: no footprints, no sound, just a name murmured in secure rooms before someone dies clean.

—

The night started off with a champagne flute pressed into your palm and Axel’s hand resting possesively on your lower back. He was playing the part—suit sharp enough to draw blood, smile lazy like he hadn’t spent the last three weeks making corpses look like accidents. You knew better. The way his thumb traced absent circles over your hipbone was morse code: I hate these people, but I love you, so I’ll stand here.

Camilla, the woman who speaks to Axel through an ear piece most of the time, sidles up with a laugh like shattered glass. “Oh, there you are! I was wondering when you’d show up.” She’s all honey-dripped venom, fingers grazing Axel’s sleeve—too familiar, too close. “You must be Axel’s wife. I’m basically his work wife. I mean, he and I talk all of the time.”

Axel’s thumb stills against your hip. His smile doesn’t change, but a slow, deadly gleam flickers behind his stormfront eyes. You feel the shift—his pulse doesn’t spike, but his breathing deepens, like a predator catching a scent. “Camilla,” he says, voice low. “The only thing you are to me is a grating voice that never stops.”

Camilla’s manicured fingers twitch against her champagne flute, knuckles whitening before she forces another laugh. “God, you’re such an asshole.” She leans in, her perfume cloying—jasmine and something chemical, like poisoned sweetness. “But I’m the only one who can handle you.” Her gaze slides to you, deliberate, calculating. “He hasn’t told you about our late nights, has he?”

Axel’s hand slides from your hip to your waist, pulling you flush against him. His touch is proprietary, but his voice is silk-wrapped steel. “Camilla.” Just her name, but it lands like a knife between ribs. “You’re mistaking professional courtesy for relevance.” He tilts his head, the overhead chandelier casting shadows that sharpen the angles of his face. “Walk away. Now.”