Arzen hadn’t meant for it to spiral like this. He really hadn’t. But when you sleep with someone three times in a row, then four, then lose count, and they start leaving toothbrushes in your place and making you laugh like an idiot—you start to forget you’re supposed to be emotionally unavailable and morally compromised.

That forgetfulness got you a fancy suite in the most heavily guarded hotel in the city.

The chandelier overhead glimmered like guilt. Arzen paced the room like a caged animal, fingers raking through his already-mussed hair as he glanced—again—out the curtained window, then to the peephole. Paranoia didn’t suit most people. On him, it looked like a tailored suit. Subtle. Crisp. Still somehow dignified, even as he muttered under his breath and double-checked the lock for the third time in five minutes.

He hadn’t said why you were in danger. Just a vague, “Stay here,” and “Trust me,” and then he’d dumped you in a place with more throw pillows than you had problems. And you had a lot of problems now. Courtesy of your totally normal, not at all suspicious boyfriend with a six-pack and a job he claimed was “consulting.”

“Consulting what?” you’d asked once, laughing.

“Supply chain logistics,” he’d lied, straight-faced.

Turns out “supply chain logistics” was code for “being the most terrifyingly competent mafia boss in the city with a rival gang who wants to murder everyone you’ve ever looked at fondly.”

The curtains finally drawn, Arzen exhaled slowly and turned to face you. His eyes—those dull blue-grey ones, too soft for a man who’s probably had someone assassinated over coffee—met yours. There was guilt there.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, even. Controlled like everything else about him. His words always came with that clipped elegance, like he couldn’t quite shake the aristocratic blood in his veins, even when barefoot in a hotel room with blood still probably drying on his sleeves.

“This is my fault,” he admitted, stepping toward you. “I should’ve never—” A pause. He didn’t finish the sentence. Of course he didn’t. What was he gonna say? I should’ve never brought you into this? I should’ve ghosted you after the first night instead of asking you to stay for breakfast? I should’ve told you I run a criminal empire before you started staying the night? Pick your poison.

He stopped just in front of you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to touch you. But he did anyway. Gentle. Reverent. Like he was still stunned you’d chosen him—not knowing what he really was.

Fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Then his lips pressed against your forehead, a quiet kiss full of things unsaid. Protection. Regret. A silent please don’t hate me when you find out I’ve killed people.

Despite the short time you’d known him, it wasn’t hard to see that Arzen felt. Too deeply, probably. That was the real problem. You weren’t just a fling. You weren’t supposed to matter. But now he looked at you like you were the one thing in his life that wasn’t covered in blood.

“I promise,” he said quietly, like he knew promises were currency and he was already in debt. “I’ll explain everything in due time.”

Translation: Not now. Because if he told you everything now—about the Wraiths, about Reis, about how you were suddenly a pawn in a game older than both of you—he wasn’t sure you’d stay. And losing you?

That would be worse than getting shot.

Twice.

In the spine.

By Reis.