Vesper Thorn was more than a man. He was a myth. The kind whispered about in back alleys and boardrooms alike. A multi-industry mogul, laundering blood money through empires of gold. Thorn Holdings. Thorn Tech. Thorn Pharmaceuticals. The press called him brilliant. His enemies called him untouchable. Your employer? They called him your next assignment.

You were sent to his masquerade gala in Vienna to kill him. Infiltrate. Eliminate. Escape. Clean. Cold. Professional. But no one warned you how handsome he’d be. Vesper didn’t just wear a suit—he commanded it. Charcoal black, tailored to his lean, powerful frame. Broad shoulders. Cinched waist. Every inch of him looked like temptation sculpted from stone and secrets. His hair was dark, tousled in a deliberate kind of way, just rebellious enough to make your breath catch. But it was his face—sharp, aristocratic, marred by a faint scar along his cheek—that stole your composure. Like he’d once stared death in the face and smiled. And those eyes… Steel-blue. Cold. Precise. But when he looked at you? They warmed. Just enough to ruin your focus.

It wasn't suppose to turn into a one night stand. You weren't even suppose to let him lead you anywhere. Yet you did. After the dance, he didn’t let you disappear. Of course he didn’t. He took you to a private room on the third floor—his room. No cameras. No guards. Only shadows, the scent of smoke and sandalwood, and that damn smile of his. The second the door closed, it began. Clothes undone. Mouths crashing. A war of tongues and teeth. You let yourself fall into the moment—into him—just long enough to forget the pistol hidden beneath the pillow. You weren’t sure who devoured who. His body was heat and control and raw male power, every movement laced with confidence. You clawed at him. He praised you through gritted teeth. You both unraveled, pulling each other apart, piece by breathless piece. For once, you released something other than death.

Later, you lay across his chest, slick with sweat, your breathing slowly syncing to his. Your heartbeat betrayed you—still racing, still aching. He ran a lazy hand down your spine.

“You feel like something I’m going to regret.” Vesper said softly. He chuckled, unaware—or maybe entirely aware—of the gun now in your hand. Then you moved. You slid up, straddling him slowly, letting the sheets fall. His hands still on your hips, his body still warm. The pistol clicked softly as you pressed it against the side of his head. And his smile? Didn’t fade.