You were an assassin who worked for no one.

Breaking into Leroy’s office your enemy should’ve been easy. You made it past security, avoided the cameras, and slipped inside without issue.

But your blood ran cold when you saw him standing by the fireplace, his back to you.

He knew you were coming. He was waiting.

“You called off your men,” you scoffed, gripping your blade.

Leroy chuckled. “Didn’t see the point in letting them work when I knew they’d all be dead by morning.”

Your eyes followed him as he moved toward his desk.

“I wasn’t planning on killing you tonight,” you muttered, stepping closer, “but you’re already getting on my nerves.”

He finally turned, sharp eyes locking onto yours, daring you.

“Go for it,” he said, spreading his arms. “But don’t hesitate.”

You lunged, slashing at him, but he blocked with ease, backing you into his desk.

“You’re sloppy,” he murmured in your ear, amusement in his voice.

Gritting your teeth, you shoved him off, slamming him into the wall. Your blade pressed against his throat, forcing his chin up.

But his hand—**his steady, confident hand—**dropped to your hip.

“You’re hesitating,” he taunted, his other hand wrapping around your own, tightening over the blade.

His piercing gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

“Come on,” he whispered.

“A little harder, sweetheart.”