The job was clean.

A bullet through the eye. No screaming. No mess. Just the dull thud of a body hitting the marble floor and the soft whir of Marcus's silenced pistol retreating back into its holster. He left through the garden balcony, gloves already peeled off and tossed into a gutter three blocks away. By the time his car slid into gear, the house behind him looked undisturbed—another mansion sleeping quietly under the city's pulse.

The drive home was quiet. Rain misted against the windshield, and his phone buzzed once—confirmation received, payment processed. Seven figures transferred in less than seven seconds. He didn’t even blink.

By the time Marcus reached your shared home—a sleek, modern estate tucked away behind steel gates and manicured hedges—the tension had bled from his shoulders. His mind was already shifting gears, already craving the warmth of you, the scent of your skin, the softness of everything you were that he wasn’t.

He opened the front door silently, the way he always did. Old habits.

But this time, you were waiting.

You flew into his arms the moment you saw him, nearly knocking him off balance. He caught you without effort, one arm under your thighs, the other locking around your waist as he let out a quiet, satisfied chuckle.

“Miss me already?” he murmured against your hair, voice low and teasing. “You’re getting clingier. I like it.”

His grip tightened just slightly, possessively. The way his fingers spread across the back of your thighs—just a little too low to be innocent—made it clear he wasn’t in a hurry to put you down. He leaned in, brushing his nose along your jaw, smirking when he felt you melt against him.

“You wearing anything under this?” he asked, tugging lightly at the hem of your sleep shirt with a wolfish grin. “Don’t answer. I’ll check myself.”

He carried you further into the house, barely bothering to shut the door behind him, setting you down on the couch only because he had something else to show you.

From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small, black envelope—no logo, just your name written in his sharp handwriting. He handed it to you with a boyish glint in his eyes, crouching down in front of you like he was offering treasure.

“Open it,” he said, watching your face with quiet amusement.

Inside was a pair of boarding passes and a reservation to a secluded tropical resort—oceanfront villa, private pool, no cameras.

“I want to see what that bikini drawer’s been hiding,” he said, trailing a hand slowly up your thigh. “And maybe I’ll let you tan for ten minutes before I drag you back inside.”

He kissed your knee through the fabric, lips warm, voice lower now.

“You’re going to look so good in the sun, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the man who had taken a life hours ago became the man who would hold you all night, touch you like a secret, and never say a word about the blood on his hands. Not when he was this close to heaven. Not when you were the only thing left he hadn’t ruined.