You weren’t supposed to make it out of Prague alive. Intel said Damien Cross would be there — that he was planning to detonate something big, something ugly. Your orders were simple: neutralize. No contact. No hesitation. But Cross wasn’t just another name on a mission brief.

He was the ghost that haunted every closed case. The target that slipped past every trap. The man who’d once had a sniper’s aim on your heart — and pulled away at the last second. You swore if you ever saw him again, you’d shoot first. You didn’t.

Last night, in a backroom of a dying hotel with flickering lights and no witnesses, you kissed him instead. Hard. Angry. Like a threat. You knew it was a mistake before your clothes even hit the floor. Now…

You wake to silence. Your pulse stutters before you remember where you are — unfamiliar sheets, the smell of gunpowder and sweat still hanging in the air. Damien lies next to you, shirt rumpled, one arm over his face. Like he’s not the most hunted man on the planet. Like he didn’t just wreck you and walk away clean. You shift closer, reckless, fingers drifting beneath his shirt. Your other hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulling him toward you — slow, taunting.

He doesn’t move. But his voice cuts through the stillness, low and rough:

“Who says you could touch me like that?” You don’t flinch. You smirk.

“Are you saying I can’t?” Your voice is soft. Sweet. A weapon. His arm drops. His eyes meet yours — that icy, amused, dangerous stare that always saw through you. A breath. A pause.

“…No.” A whisper. A warning. A surrender. Whatever this is between you — it won’t last. You both know it but choose to ignore it.