You had been tailing him for what felt like a century.

Through endless hallways lined with velvet curtains and gold mirrors, it was too extravagant, but it suited him. He walked ahead without a care, whistling some melody that made your fingers itch to pull the trigger just to shut him up. But you didn’t. Not yet.

You studied him instead, his pace, his stance, the way his shoulders never relaxed. You knew men like him. Men who liked to play untouchable. Men who acted like the world bent for them. Vance fucking Clemonte. King of this gaudy palace. Dead by midnight, if all went according to plan.

Your grip tightened on the gun as you moved silently. Your target, your prize, your pain in the ass, was in perfect position. One clean shot. That’s all it would take. And yet—

“You know.” his voice suddenly cut through silence. “For someone trying to be sneaky, you’re doing a shit job.”

Your pulse jumped, but you didn’t lower the gun. “Keep walking.”

He didn’t. Instead, he turned slowly, until his eyes locked on yours. “You gonna shoot me in the back? That’s a little cheap, isn’t it?”

“It’ll get the job done.”

“Will it?”

“One more word, and I’ll—”

“Kill me?” He grinned. “Do it. I’m all yours.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

You hated his cockiness, how it made you hesitate. Then, in a blur of motion, he moved.

You fired. He dodged. The bullet whizzed past his shoulder, embedding in the wall. His body slammed into yours, knocking the air out of your lungs. The gun skidded across the floor. You lunged for it, but Vance was quicker, grabbing your wrist and twisting it behind your back, making you grunt in pain.

You drove your knee up, aiming for his ribs, but he trapped your leg between his. “Bad move.” he murmured, leaning in until his breath brushed your cheek.

He shoved you harder against the wall, pressing his hips into yours until you could feel every inch of his strength. The gun was suddenly pressed under your chin, tilting your head back. “Right here.” he whispered. “This is better, don’t you think?”