Page 16 of Lady and the Hitman

Didn’t hear a knock. Didn’t hear the latch. Didn’t hear anything but the low hum of the ceiling fan and the rush of my own blood in my ears.

I was standing in the hallway, still damp from the shower, when I felt it—that shift in the air. Like something had entered the room without sound. Without warning.

I’d put on a touch of makeup—just enough to feel composed. Mascara. A hint of bronzer. Lip balm with a sheen. My skin was still warm from lotion, the scent of fig and black pepper rising faintly with every breath.

I turned.

And he was there.

Just—there.

Standing at the far end of the hall, half-shadowed by the archway that led to the living room. Like he’d been watching. Like he’d always been watching.

Broad shoulders. Black suit. No tie. Hands at hissides, still and patient. His presence so heavy it made the floor feel uneven beneath me.

My breath caught hard in my throat.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just looked at me.

Like he was assessing something. Measuring it. Like I was a file he’d already memorized but wanted to confirm in person.

He was … stunning.

But not in the way boys were. Not in the way polished men at charity galas tried to be. He was beautiful the way fire is beautiful—dangerous, elemental, made to consume. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His mouth was a straight, unreadable line. His eyes, when they met mine, were the kind of dark you don’t describe with color. You describe them with intent.

He looked like power. Precision. Restraint.

And I couldn’t breathe.

“I didn’t hear you,” I said, my voice low, already different.

He tilted his head slightly. “You weren’t meant to.”

The words slid down my spine like silk over a blade.

“Is that … how you always enter a woman’s home?”

“No,” he said, calm. “Only the ones who ask for it.”

My knees almost buckled.

There was nothing aggressive in his tone. Nothing raised. But his voice was the kind that claimed space. It landed between my legs and settled there, thick and certain. I stepped back instinctively, trying to remember how to stand upright.

He followed.

Just one step.

That was all it took for me to realize something terrifying: I wasn’t afraid.

Not really.

Every cell in my body was lit up. Every breath was shallow. But it wasn’t fear. It was readiness.

“You came,” I whispered.

His gaze swept over me slowly, deliberately, like he was committing every inch to memory. “Yes.”