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“I have this horrible giddy sensation in my chest, squirming in my gut.”

“That’s called hope, I think. Maybe contentedness?”

“I don’t like it.” Especially because I can’t put my finger on what’s causing it.

“Ah, the struggles of a psychopath.”

The last few months have been a whirlwind of excitement, of passion. Fucking, fighting, high stakes, adrenaline.

But that’s always been the line between Circe and I. As long as it falls within the mission, and the wild wind down after, anything goes. Outside of that…

Vulnerability is a nonstarter. Like the second a real conversation starts, we deflect.

The only exceptions are the few times we’ve held hands. She sleeps on my chest at night too.

Those thoughts always haze over when I linger on them for too long. Same goes for all of the partying and sightseeing we did along the way.

Only the strenuous facts of the missions remain clear to my memory. Like a summary, or report of where we’ve been and what we’ve done. Or the moments of intense pain. Fights. Cuts. Bullet wounds. Clear as day.

So why do I find myself staring at her as we travel? So that I can try and remember a version of her and me that’s some twisted kind of happy?

Maybe it’s all a dream. But I feel like I know things that I can’t remember seeing her do before. The way she twirls the sides of her hair by her ears, pulling it out and away to bounce back with the spring of her curls. The way she waits for me to say something stupid so she can clap back with a rude comment.

She’s clever as hell.

“Almost as clever as me…” Ciro sighs from his seat on the plane nearby.

“You’re about as clever as balls in a bear trap.”

“Nowthatwas clever. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

“Good question,” I mumble.

As much as I try to stay focused, to ignore the black hole in my mind, memories try to surface. I gather every scrap of the ones that do. Writing them down is the only way I can be sure I’ll remember.

I reread my journal as often as I dare.

The picture painted in those memories takes two forms. One, a vicious killer. The other, more like I feel now.

But I wonder if I was ever that man before? A man who could open up to Circe, show her how I really…

“Why don’t you?”

“You know why,” I cut Ciro off.

“Sure I do. Do you?”

I flick him a bland, irritated stare. Ciro wags his eyebrows, nodding to the other seat across from me where Circe lays curled up in a blanket, sleeping through the long flight.

How can she be so gorgeous? So inviting and challenging and…

Completely untrustworthy.

“Iwantto trust you…” It slips out, barely a whisper.

“Hm?” She stirs.

I cross my legs, leaning back in my seat and making a soft shushing sound. She smirks, ever so slightly, readjusting in her feline pose, drifting back off.