Working with Victor Creed was always a bad idea.

You knew that. Everyone knew that.

He was abrasive, violent, smug, impossible to control, and somehow always managed to make every mission more irritating than it needed to be. Yet despite all of that, you still ended up partnered with him more often than you liked.

Or more often than you admitted liking.

This time, the arrangement made sense.

Your target was a broker with too many enemies and too much confidence, currently hiding inside one of the most exclusive casinos in the city. Victor wanted the bounty on his head.

You wanted information… and an item the man had stolen.

So, temporarily, you were allies.

The casino required a certain level of presentation, which was one of the few parts of this job you actually enjoyed. Dressing well, blending in, looking expensive enough to belong anywhere you stepped foot.

That part came naturally.

Victor, however?

You had never once associated the man with the phrase cleaned up nice.

Usually he looked like he’d crawled out of the woods after fistfighting wildlife.

So after getting ready, you were comfortably settled in a chair inside the luxury hotel suite you’d booked for the mission, one leg crossed over the other, laptop open as you monitored camera feeds. A glass of overpriced wine rested in your hand while you waited for Victor to finish in the bathroom.

You expected… something passable.

Maybe a wrinkled shirt. Maybe shoes without blood on them.

The bathroom door opened.

You looked up.

And forgot how to blink.

Victor stepped out like he belonged on the cover of something sinful and expensive.

Black silk shirt, the top few buttons undone just enough to show the start of his chest. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Tailored black trousers that actually fit him properly. Clean shoes. A simple chain at his throat that somehow worked embarrassingly well against his skin.

And worst of all?

He’d groomed himself.

His hair was trimmed back into something intentional. Beard cleaned up. No wild-man energy. No drowned-cat aesthetic.

He looked dangerous.

But refined dangerous.

Which was somehow worse.

You stared at him in complete silence.

Victor walked right past you to the full-length mirror like none of this was noteworthy, adjusting one cuff before glancing at your reflection through the glass.

He caught your expression immediately.

A slow, smug grin spread across his face.

“What?” he asked, voice rough with amusement. “Didn’t think I cleaned up this good?”

You blinked once, recovering.

“I thought you’d come out looking like a mobster who lost a bar fight.”

Victor barked out a laugh.

“Still might.”

He turned slightly, checking himself from another angle, then looked back at you.

“Keep starin’, sweetheart. Makes me feel pretty.”

You scoffed and took a slow sip of wine.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Victor prowled closer until he stood beside your chair, one hand bracing on the back of it as he leaned down near your ear.

"Too late,” he murmured. “Saw your face when I walked out.”