Damion had been assigned countless names before. Most of them blurred together—syndicate bosses, backstabbing nobles, corrupt officials who were worth more dead than alive. But this one... this one came with a mark.

The mark was simple: a flower with seven petals, etched on the underside of the wrist. A soulmark, his client said. Proof of a destined connection. A mark shared between soulmates.

He thought it was just another lie to manipulate a killer.

Until he saw you.

You wore the mark like it was an afterthought, faded and soft at the edges, half-covered by the sleeve of your worn coat. You didn’t flinch when he entered the room. You didn’t scream. You didn’t beg. You just looked at him with tired eyes and said, “Took you long enough.”

You were already dying.

Not from him.

The illness had settled into your bones weeks ago, maybe months. You walked like your body was made of glass, spoke like breath cost too much. You didn’t care who he was. You just asked him to stay.

He didn’t know why he did.

Maybe it was the mark.

Maybe it was the way you spoke to him like he was more than a weapon.

He cooked for you, helped you walk when your legs gave out, sat by your bed when the pain got too strong for words. You told him stories—not about the illness, not about fear—but about music you loved, the books you wanted to finish, the ridiculous things you'd do if your lungs could handle laughter again.

Days blurred into nights. He never touched his blade.

The mark on his wrist started to burn.

You never asked if he was there to kill you. You never needed to.

And then, one morning, as the first snow fell, you turned to him and whispered with a faint smile, “You still haven’t done it.”

He looked down at your wrist. At the mark. At the way your fingers trembled when you tried to hold his hand.

“It was never real,” he whispered back, voice raw. “It’s just a tattoo.”

You exhaled slowly.

And he stayed.

Not as a killer. Not even as a soulmate. Just as a man.

One who showed up too late, and now refuses to leave.