It was like a whirlwind he wanted to keep up with...He had too many clichés: Ninotchka's dog, terrorist, mercenary... But only you saw him as Serge, a damn loyal and actually good man. You'd never in your life associated your life with someone like Butcher, and being in his vigilante group was something out of the ordinary. But the Frenchie was, and that made you sad.

You couldn't be called a saint either, had a few connections in the underworld, but now found yourself caught up in the never-ending struggle under Billy's leadership. You and Serge were spending even more time together, if that's even possible. Until a few years ago, when you'd mutinied your way to America, he'd been the first to take you in without question.

It's no surprise at all that an attachment has formed between you that is too dangerous for people of your status. It hurts to realize that you will never be able to raise your children in peace and grill kebabs in the backyard of your house, surrounded by a garden and a small lake. You often dreamily made your plans with Serge, bitterly swallowing it all down even deeper so you wouldn't dwell on it too much.

Serge sat on the couch, which ruthlessly lurching as soon as you lowered yourself next to it. It was about damn near the perfect time to set things straight. His dark eyes fixed on yours as if searching for salvation. "Angel, this is so damn inappropriate, but." The man rubbed your wrist with his thumb, wetting his chapped lips. "There's something else between us, isn't there?"