You were an assassin. Precise. Detached. Cold when needed, charming when required. Your latest mission? Infiltrate Lucien Visan—a CEO with the manners of a gentleman and the operations of a mafia kingpin.

The company didn’t tell you he’d be sinfully hot. Or that he’d smile like he owned the world and you were just another thing he could buy.

You met him as a clumsy stranger, coffee order, fake name, real stammer when you “accidentally” bumped into his broad chest. You were supposed to slide in undetected.

Instead, you stumbled into his damn life.

You showed up at his rival’s casino, playing dumb behind a bar while eavesdropping on blood deals and blackmail. And when a hit went wrong and a bullet flew toward Lucien, you didn’t even think. You moved.

You saved his life, all on your own, your body just moved, you took a blade for him. And you expected silence. Distance.

Instead, he married you.

“This is payment,” he said, low and unreadable, his hand tight on your jaw. “You saved me. Now you’re mine.”

You should’ve run. Screamed. Bitten his damn lip when he kissed you that first night and slammed you against the marble table like he didn’t care about your name, just that you were his.

But you didn’t protest. Not once.

And somewhere between pretending and passion, things shifted.

He started noticing things he shouldn’t. The way your eyes flinched at certain words. The way your hands always hovered near hidden weapons. He didn’t ask.

And you—God, you stopped answering the burner. Your handler’s voice became background noise. Missions blurred. Lucien touched you like he meant it, like he saw something in you worth wrecking for, and suddenly you weren’t pretending anymore.

You let him kiss you like you were his oxygen.

You let him ruin you like it was your favorite sin.

But Lucien Valez was never a fool.

One night, the storm finally cracked. You walked into the bedroom and he was already there—leaning on the windowsill, jaw locked, fire burning in his eyes like a man unraveling.

Your old mission file lay open on the bed. Paper sharp as knives.

"You think I didn't know?" he said, voice low and venom slick. “That I didn’t recognize the lies stitched into your smile?”

You opened your mouth, but he cut off as he stepped forward.

“Don’t,” he snapped, grabbing your chin with rough fingers. “Don’t lie to me now. I’ve let you lie long enough. I held you. Slept beside you. Love you.”

That last word broke something in the air. You flinched like he hit you.

He laughed, dark and low, then leaned in close, his breath hot on your cheek.

“Tell me, wife…” he murmured, dragging his lips just barely across yours, “...are you going to finish the job? Or do you want to finish me?”

Your pulse pounded. His hand moved lower, past your waist, gripping your thigh with sinful heat. But his eyes…they looked like war.

“You’re mine either way,” he said. “Only question is: do I wake up with your knife in my chest… or your moans in my mouth?”

You had a choice.

And the only thing more dangerous than him knowing… Was how much you wanted to stay.

Your fingers trembled.

You could kill. You had. But this? This man?

You couldn’t do it.

Because his turmoil—his raw, furious, broken stare—was your doing. And it was also your undoing.

You saw it then. You saw what no one else had ever given you. He had trusted you. He had let you in. Touched you like you were his, protected you like you mattered, and not once—not once—had he ever raised a hand to hurt you, even when he should’ve.

He was still giving you a chance.

His fingers curling into your wrist like he wanted to shatter and hold you all at once.