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Of every breath I took while she slept in my arms.

Because there’s no room for both.

Not for the man who tucks a blanket over her at night and whispers soft promises against her hair—and the one who’s about to make someone vanish. That part of me, the one she quiets just by being near, has to go silent now. Folded down and locked tight, so the other can rise.

Right now, there’s only the mission.

There’s only the threat.

And the man who made the mistake of stepping into my world.

Into hers.

He doesn’t know what’s coming.

He doesn’t know that mercy lives in that cabin, sleeping on my couch—and I left it behind.

All that’s in this truck is me.

And I’ve been very, very good at making monsters disappear.

The old part of me, the one that doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, uncoils slow and steady, like it never left. I don’t dread it. I don’t welcome it either. I just let it rise. Because it knows exactly what to do.

Tonight?

I’m absolute.

I kill the headlights three blocks from the motel.

No cameras. Just a gravel lot and the kind of office that locks up at midnight and stops caring by sundown.

I coast the rest of the way.

Engine low. Tires soft against the shoulder.

I park two buildings over. Tucked between a rusted-out dump truck and a fence half-swallowed by brambles.

Nothing but dark.

Nothing but silence.

I step out, the cold slicing across my face like a blade. It settles in my chest, sharp and sobering, anchoring the part of me that has no room for doubt.

Close the door without a sound.

I don’t need a gun in hand.

Not yet.

I already know the layout. Corner unit. No neighbors in either direction. The office staff only checks the rooms if someone complains—and this guy didn’t give them a reason to.

He was careful.

But not careful enough.

Because he didn’t know who she belonged to.

The word, belong, strikes something deep in me. Sharp and possessive. It grounds me even as it sharpens my control, sets tension low in my gut like a wire pulled taut.

He didn’t know. But now he will.

I cross the lot on foot.

No crunch of gravel.

No break in rhythm.

My boots move with memory—heel to toe, soft and exact, breath low in my throat.

The night air sharpens around me.

The closer I get, the quieter it becomes.

Like even the dark is holding its breath.

I stop outside the window.

The curtain’s drawn, but the glow inside is faint. Flickering. A cheap desk lamp. Maybe the bathroom light.

I wait.

Count ten slow seconds.

Watch for shadow. Movement. Breathing.

Nothing.

He’s in there.

Alone.

Exactly where I want him.

I move to the door.

Check the handle.

Locked. Not a problem.

The tools are in my jacket. Thin, precise. Silent.

It takes six seconds.

The lock clicks open.

I draw my blade, the motion smooth and controlled. My hand doesn’t shake. My body stills around it, breath low and even. All quiet dominance. All deliberate threat.

Not because I’ll use it.

But because he’ll see it.

Because fear makes men sloppy.

And I want him to know.

He was never hunting.

He was prey.

The door opens without a sound.

And I step inside.

The door swings inward.

He’s in the armchair by the window.

Feet up. Hoodie pulled halfway over his head. A plate of cold food on the table beside him. The TV on mute.

He doesn’t hear me.

Not until the door clicks shut behind me.

Then he freezes.

Not all at once—just the slight twitch of his shoulders, the halt of his breath mid-inhale. Like his body is catching up to the danger before his mind does. I see it. I always see it. That instant when prey realizes it's been seen.

Doesn’t look up right away.

I let the silence stretch.

Let it crawl under his skin.

He turns—slowly.

Sees me.

And his whole body goes still.

Recognition hits in stages.

First my face.

Then the gloves.

Then the blade.

But it’s not until his eyes drop to the silencer tucked at my waist that I see it—

Fear.

Not performance.

Not bravado.

Real.

Good.

I move closer. Step by step. No rush.

Just certainty.

He stands, jerky, hands half-raised.

“Listen—”

I tilt the blade slightly. Just enough for the light to catch.

He stops talking.

Eyes wide.

“You—you don’t want to do this. You don’t know who I’m with.”

I rest the blade near his chest. Hovering.

“I know exactly who you’re with.”

He swallows hard.

“Then you know you’re making a mistake.”

I lean in close. Close enough to see the panic jump behind his eyes, to feel the tremble in his breath.

“No.”

My voice is quiet. Dead calm.

“I know you were watching her. I know you tailed her to the field. I know you waited to see if she was alone. And I know you didn’t expect her to tag your car like a goddamn ghost.”

His breath stutters.

“You have no idea who she belongs to, do you?”

He flinches at the word.

Belongs.

I lower the knife—but let him see it stay in my hand.

“I’m only going to ask once.”

I lock eyes with him. Flat. Steady.

“Who sent you?”

He hesitates.

So I grip his jaw.

Squeeze.

“Who.”

His voice cracks.

“Salvatore.”

I don’t move.

“Which one.”

“Lucian. Italy.”

My jaw tightens. My stomach burns cold.

Not a local job. Not a coincidence.

International. Coordinated. Old world money.

And that name—

That name—I haven’t heard it in nearly a decade.

“What does he want with her?”

The man doesn’t answer.

I lean forward. No contact. Just the blade hovering near his cheek.

“What does he want with her?”

“Nothing—nothing personal,” he wheezes. “Not her. You. He found you.”

My chest stills.

Everything in me narrows to a single point.

“He wants me.”

“Not just you,” he rasps. “Your ledger. The old jobs. The contacts you cut loose but never truly lost. You were off-grid too long, and he doesn’t like loose ends. He’s cleaning house.”

I crouch beside him.

Blade still in hand.

“You thought coming after her would do that.”

He nods, shaking.

“It was a warning.”

I pull a small vial from my jacket.

Unmarked. Clear.

He sees it.

And his breath leaves him.

“You know what happens next.”

He closes his eyes.

“I was just doing a job.”

My voice is a breath.

“So am I.”

The road winds out ahead of me in near-dark.

Long before dawn, before movement, before sound.

I keep the window cracked just enough to feel the cold. Let it sting the edges of my focus. Let it remind me that I’m still here.

Let it burn cold in my lungs. Cutting through the warmth I left behind, the last remnants of her scent still clinging to me, clearing the fog from my mind. Let it sting just enough to keep me awake, alert, sharp.

That I did it.

That it’s done.

The gloves are off. Folded neatly on the passenger seat. The burner phone is gone—tossed down a ravine fifteen kilometers back. The last of the gear sealed in a lockbox beneath the truck bed. No trace. No trail.

Nothing left behind.

Nothing but silence.

And the faint sting of antiseptic under my fingernails.

Not blood.

There was no blood.

Not in the end.

The vial did its job. Painless. Quick. The kind of death you only get when the person dealing it means for it to be clean.

No signs of struggle.

No reason for suspicion.

Just a man in a motel chair with a drink in his hand and no future left in his chest.

I staged the scene in under five minutes.

Left the door locked behind me.

Moved the way I used to move, before I started dreaming of warmth and a soft weight in my arms, before the scent of her hair and the hush of her breath made the violence harder to wear. Before I knew what it was to miss her even while doing what needed to be done.

I never flinched, never questioned. And I’d do it again.

Because that man watched her.

Followed her.

Planned to use her.

And there are some debts the world doesn’t get to collect.

Not while I’m breathing.

I shift my grip on the wheel.

My knuckles ache from how hard I held them through the hour-long drive out. My shoulders are tight. My jaw too.

I remind myself:

He’s gone.

And she’s safe.

The sky starts to pale in the east.

A deep blue bruising into lavender.

The town still sleeps.

The kind of hush that only happens in the last breath before morning.

I slow the truck as I approach the long bend toward the cabin.

The Watcher’s still posted. I spot him at the edge of the trees—barely a shape, but exactly where I told him to be.

I nod once, and he nods back, then disappears. Just like always.

I kill the engine in the drive. The house is dark. Silent.

But she’s inside. I feel her, her calm, even from here.

And something in me breaks open.

Soft.

Slow.

Like thaw.