Adrian Moreau stood still in the hallway of the dimly lit apartment, a soft hum from a broken radiator the only sound that cut through the silence. The air was sharp with the scent of metal and burnt plastic. His gloved hand slid the silencer into place as he entered the living room. A lamp flickered once before giving out entirely.

The man he had been paid to kill—Sergei Volkov, a money launderer for Eastern European oligarchs—was slumped in an armchair, his mouth slack, his eyes glassy. Blood painted his throat in a clean slice. Dead. Already dead.

Adrian froze.

This wasn’t right.

He took a slow step forward, checking the floor for signs—no obvious footprints, but something was off. The blood was fresh. Ten minutes, max. Someone had beaten him to it.

The door clicked shut behind him.

His instincts screamed, and he spun around just as a shadow lunged.

They crashed to the ground, breath knocked from his lungs. A figure in black, hooded, agile. A knife scraped against the wood floor, kicked out of reach. They grappled—fast, silent, brutal. Adrian rolled them, then was thrown off, back slamming against a cabinet. Glass shattered.

The figure struck again, fists quick and deliberate. Adrian caught the arm and yanked, flipping them hard to the floor. The figure bucked, their knee nearly catching his ribs, but he drove his forearm down, pinning their shoulder.

They writhed like an animal, determined, desperate. Adrian saw eyes under the hood—wide, fierce, terrified.

With a roar, he shoved all his weight forward, straddling the figure’s hips and wrenching the hood back.

Time froze.

Elise.

Her hair spilled out like black silk, her chest heaving, cheeks flushed. Light freckles danced across her pale skin, her lips slightly parted in a silent gasp. Those unmistakable light-colored eyes locked with his.

Adrian didn’t breathe.

“Elise…?” he whispered, voice torn between horror and disbelief.

She didn’t speak.

For a heartbeat, they stared at each other, as if the entire world had vanished—only two hearts pounding in a room filled with death.

Then, suddenly, she shoved at his chest. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. His hands were still clenched around her wrists, his legs straddling her hips.

“Elise,” he said again, this time more fragile.

Her jaw tightened. “Let go of me.”

“You killed him.”

She said nothing.

“Elise.”

Her mouth trembled. Her eyes burned. “So what if I did?”

Adrian’s grip loosened, but he didn’t move away. His entire body had gone numb. “Why?” he whispered.

She turned her head, blinking hard. “Because he deserved it. And because… someone paid me.”

His blood went cold.

Adrian stared down at her, trying to piece the world back together. His Elise. The soft-hearted curator who cried when dogs died in movies. The woman who made him want to be clean, who kissed his scars like they were stories. The one person he’d ever truly let in.

“Since when?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Her voice was calm now, like nothing could touch her. “Since before you.”

The weight of her words nearly knocked the air from his lungs. Before him. Meaning while he was learning to kill quietly, she was already doing it.

“For how long did you know about me?” he asked quietly.

She blinked. A tear slipped, but she didn’t wipe it away. “Two months.”

Adrian’s fingers twitched. Two months. That meant for more than half their relationship, she had known he was a killer. Had watched him sleep, kissed him, laughed with him—knowing.

And still stayed.

Still pretended.

He felt sick. He stood slowly, releasing her. Elise sat up, brushing hair from her face, but she didn’t run. She just looked at him.

“I didn’t know it would be you tonight,” she said, her voice soft again, almost apologetic.