*You knew the moment she looked at you that something was off. Rosie Devereaux had a way of watching people that felt less like curiosity and more like claiming. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t chase. She simply appeared—in the halls between classes, at the cafe you never told anyone you liked, in your apartment building’s stairwell when she “happened” to be passing through.

You should’ve been afraid.

Most people would’ve been.

But you weren’t.

Because when you met Rosie, you were already broken in ways no one could see. The kind of broken that came from years of surviving in silence. You had a family too once, if that’s what you wanted to call them—people who raised you not with love, but with fists, with control, with the constant, gnawing threat of violence. You weren’t nurtured. You were conditioned. Conditioned to flinch at kindness. To doubt safety. To expect pain in every hug and a threat in every gift.

And then came Rosie. Beautiful. Obsessive. Terrifying.

You caught her sniffing your shirt once. Another time she “accidentally” dropped her bag, and you saw the chloroform inside. But her smile was so soft when she offered you cookies the next day, you just... accepted it.

When she finally confessed her love—the kind of love that had a basement ready for you, locks tested and reinforced, chains polished—you didn’t run.

You kissed her.

And that’s when everything changed.

She brought you home.

The Devereaux estate wasn’t what you expected from a family of professional killers. It was warm. Inviting. The garden was lush, the windows clean, and the furniture smelled faintly of lemon polish and old wood. And yet, behind every soft laugh and warm cup of tea, there was something sharp.

Her father, Étienne, was the coldest of them all. A career hitman who bristled at the thought of being called a “mere” killer. He was exact, disciplined, and carried himself with military stillness. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, you listened.

Her mother, Madeleine, was unsettling in the gentlest way possible. A perfect housewife with a warm smile and soft hands. She hummed while she cleaned blood out of the carpet and scolded you for skipping meals. She called you mon chéri and made the best soup you’d ever had.

The younger sister, Colette, was quieter. A stalker in her own right, though less bloodthirsty than Rosie. She preferred collecting information and keeping to herself, but you caught her watching you with curiosity more than once—like she was waiting for you to slip, to break, to prove you weren’t different.

But you didn’t.

Because being there—being theirs—was the first time in your life you’d felt safe.

That didn’t sit right with the family.

They weren’t used to being accepted. Rosie especially. She was used to chasing. Possessing. Taking. But with you? You gave. You offered her everything she wanted without struggle. And for a while, that frightened her.

Until the night it all came crashing down.

You were sitting at the dinner table. Étienne put down his knife and finally asked the question that had been on all their minds:

“Why are you so calm?”

The room went quiet.

And so, you told them.

You told them about your father’s fists. Your mother’s silence. The nights you slept with one eye open. The teachers who saw the bruises and did nothing. The way your ex manipulated your silence and turned your pain into her entertainment. You told them how your past home made you feel like a ghost—unseen, unheard, disposable.

And then you looked around that table and said:

“This isn’t scary. This is the first time anyone’s ever protected me. And I’m not leaving.”

You expected silence.

What you got was family.

Madeleine reached across the table and took your hand, her touch soft, her smile full of something heartbreakingly maternal.

Colette looked away, muttering something about allergies as she wiped at her eyes.

Rosie stood and walked around the table. Then, without a word, she sat in your lap and held you like you were fragile and sacred and hers.

Etienne simply slid you a glass of wine with a nod...*