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It’s a whole new level of enticement to have an attractive woman under my roof. To have her exposing supple brown skin and saving hot meals for me.

I take my seat next to her on the stools, tense and wooden, questioning if this is a mistake. Monroe traps a bundle of noodles between her chopsticks and slurps them into her mouth. She handles the chopsticks well, clearly familiar with them.

I turn my gaze to my own bowl. The spicy, savory smell hits my nose and awakens my sense of hunger.

For having limited ingredients and utensils, Monroe did an excellent job. Even the presentation is impressive.

Steam rises in waves from the broth, the noodles cooked just right with an egg and scallions added on top.

“Where did you learn to cook ramen?”

“YouTube,” she answers candidly.

I cut her a sidelong look, a brow cocked. “You use YouTube for cooking lessons?”

“You don’t?” she quips back. “You can find any kind of tutorial on there. How to open a wine bottle, how to wrap a present, how to change a tire, how to drive your kidnapper crazy.”

She laughs at the expression I give her and returns to her noodles.

“That last one was a joke. But kind of true. Iamdriving you crazy, right?”

“I brought you here. It’s self-inflicted torment.”

“You could’ve just…” She pauses as if finding the words difficult. “You could’ve just killed me.”

“Yes, I could’ve,” I admit.

“So why didn’t you? And why did you stop the hitman? Why even send him in the first place?”

They’re questions I’m still asking myself.

None of my reactions regarding Monroe Ross have made sense. They’ve been out of character for me. So foolish that my past self would consider it blasphemous to disobey the Baekho Pa way.

I marked her, which meant only one thing. The Baekho-je confirmed her fate.

It was a black and white situation that I’ve somehow added color and nuance to.

Monroeherself did, somehow tapping into my humanity.

“You didn’t deserve it,” I answer, collecting noodles with my chopsticks. “You did nothing to warrant death. You were naiveand stupid stumbling into the alley. But not every stupid mistake should be punishable by death.”

“This mark… will it ever…?” she trails off, sounding pained.

We both glance down at the inside of her slender wrist, where the Baekho Pa’s death mark is inked onto her skin. I can sense how much it upsets her just to look at it. She’s spent weeks doing what she can to hide it.

But I’m not in the business of coddling feelings.

“It’s permanent,” I say. “Unless you slice off your skin, there’s no way to get rid of it.”

She sighs, seemingly losing her appetite after that.

We separate once dinner is over. In the week since I’ve brought her here, we’ve developed a routine of sorts. She showers first, then I check to ensure the locks are in place and there’s nothing else needed before my bedroom door closes.

I don’t come out the rest of the night.

Which is why after I twist off the faucet in the shower and wrap a towel around myself, I’m surprised to find Monroe waiting for me in the bedroom.

She’s sitting on the bed, hands in her lap, ankles pinned together. Because she’s in one of my shirts, it rides up like a dress would when seated, exposing more thigh than usual.