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I’m Not A Princess, I’m A Queen

Hypothetical Question: If you could control one small, insignificant thing in the world (like making all pigeons wear tiny hats), what would it be?

Carina

Nate's muscles ripple beneath his suit, the black fabric clinging to every shift and flex of his body.

It's an absurd outfit for a crime scene cleanup, but I can't seem to focus on that. Not when seeing him makes my thoughts stray to places they shouldn't go.

"Why the suit?" I ask, watching as he tosses another blood-soaked towel into a black bag with infuriating ease.

His movements are too smooth—casual, practised, precise like he's done this a thousand times.

The methodical process of erasing evidence should feel cold. Clinical. Distant.

But instead, it feels… intimate.

We move around each other with an unsettling familiarity, our bodies slipping into an effortless rhythm. He passes me supplies before I can ask, as if he already knows what I need. Like a dance, well-rehearsed.

I don't know why this doesn't scare me.

It should.

Working alongside a professional killer should terrify me.

But… it doesn't.

Kai works mechanically, efficiently, scrubbing every surface with chemicals, erasing the carnage like it never existed. The body, now wrapped in thick black bags, is ready for disposal.

At one point, he even ran out to buy matching bedding to replace what had been ruined. Thank God this room wasn't carpeted. I need to start thinking these things through more.

"I was at a party," Nate says suddenly, answering my earlier question.

I blink. "A party?"

"A charity dinner, to be precise."

I stare at him. "You… go to charity dinners?"

He grins, utterly unbothered by my scepticism. "Don't look so shocked, Princess. I'm actually quite affluent."

He steps toward me and hands me a clean towel. The brush of his fingers against mine sends a shiver of awareness up my spine.

"But… you're a murderer?" I murmur.

Nate tilts his head. "So are you."

I hesitate.

"What's your point?" he adds smoothly.

Damn him. He has me there.

I frown, grasping for logic. "I don't know. I just assumed you were part of some underground criminal network or something.”

His lips quirk. "Who says I'm not?"

I open my mouth.

"Nah," he cuts me off, chuckling. The sound is low, rich—dangerous in all the wrong ways. "I'm kidding. I work alone. Usually."

The way his eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate, sends a spark of heat licking through my veins.

"But you? You might be the exception."

My stomach tightens. A rush of heat pools low, a flutter igniting even lower.

No.

No, no, no.

I won't react to him.

I can't.

Desperate to change the subject, I blurt out, "You work with Kai."

"Ah, true. But Kai's not a killer."

I glance toward Kai, who's still scrubbing at a stubborn splotch of blood, his focus unshakable.

"You've never killed anyone?" The words slip out quieter than I intended.

Kai's hand pauses for half a second.

Then, without looking up, he mutters, "No. Not my thing."

"But you help with… cleaning?"

"I don't like a mess." He shrugs as if that explains everything, then resumes scrubbing—a silent dismissal.

Nate nudges my shoulder, grinning. "Don't mind him. He's a bit touchy with new people. But he'll warm up."

I seriously doubt that.

Still, we fall back into an easy rhythm, clearing away the evidence of my crime like it's just another Tuesday night.

A few hours later, the scene is spotless—and Kai has vanished into the night, taking the evidence with him.

"What's he going to do with it?" I ask as Nate and I head toward our cars.

"Probably best you don't know."

Before I can respond, he's already smirking. "Are you hungry? Murder always makes me hungry."

My stomach betrays me with a loud growl.

I cringe.

Nate beams. Smug. Amused. Devastatingly attractive.

"I'll take that as a yes."

I hesitate. Spending more time with Nate isn't smart. He's dangerous—a fact I've been painfully aware of since we met.

But then again… so am I.

I wasn't always like this—cold, calculated, and deadly. Once, I believed my life would follow the same trajectory as everyone else's: school, friends, and dreams of a future.

But life had other plans.

It may be time I stop pretending.

I shrug. "I could eat."

An hour later, we're parked outside a McDonald's. Showered and changed into Nate's spare clothes—stashed in the back of his car, of course. I'm now drowning in a black hoodie and joggers.

The hoodie is massive, thanks to Nate's broad shoulders and ridiculous height. The sleeves are so long that I could use them as gloves.

We match, though. Conveniently, he had two pairs of everything.

I shift, inhaling the scent clinging to the fabric. Spiced clove and cedarwood. Rich. Earthy.

It feels like a quiet, protective embrace.

"Did you just sniff my hoodie?" Nate's voice slices through the silence, teasing but low enough to make my pulse quicken.

Not so subtle, then.

I lift my chin. "Yep."

His smirk deepens, voice dipping into something low, dark, and dangerous. "I like that."

I glance at him. Something flickers in his gaze—heat, quick and fleeting.

Then it's gone.

Inside, we sit with our food—Happy Meals, because apparently, we're both children.

The silence between us is surprisingly easy.

Strange how comfortable this is. This moment between two killers.

There’s something grounding about his presence. When he is near, all the chaos in my life fades into the background.

Nate leans back, unwrapping his burger. "So… Do I finally get to know your name? Or do I just keep calling you 'Princess'?"

I smirk, leaning forward. "I'm not a princess, I'm a queen."

Nate's lips twitch with a grin. "My deepest apologies, Your Majesty." He gives a mock bow from across the table, a voice rich with amusement.

I laugh—a real, unguarded laugh. The sound feels foreign. But good. So damn good.

"It's Carina, by the way."

His gaze flickers with something unreadable. "Carina," he repeats my name, slow and deliberate, letting it roll off his tongue like a secret meant only for us.

A shiver trails down my spine. The way he says it—deep, smooth, almost sinful—lingers in the air between us.

I watch as he takes a bite of his burger, his jaw flexing with every slow movement. There's something unnervingly attractive about him, even under the harsh fluorescent glow of a McDonald's. It could be how he carries himself as if he owns the space around him. Or it could be how his dark, piercing gaze could strip me bare with a glance.

I drag my eyes away, fingers trembling slightly as I reach for my fries.

I shouldn't feel this way.

I don't want to feel this way.

But I do.

And that's the problem.

Nate's voice cuts through my thoughts, softer this time. "Carina." His eyes lock on mine. "It suits you."

Damn him.

I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. "Thanks."

He leans back, studying me with that lazy, confident smirk. "So, Queen Carina , what's next on your royal agenda?"

I arch a brow. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

His smile deepens. The air between us shifts, thickening and pulsing with something unspoken. I catch the slight change in his posture, the way his shoulders relax as he exhales, and the way his fingers tap rhythmically on the table—like he's controlling the beat of something primal that wants to break free.

For the first time in a long time, I feel alive.

But it's a dangerous kind of life.

I know better than to trust it.

My past taught me that men are monsters. They wear charming smiles like masks and hide their cruelty behind soft words.

But maybe—just maybe—not all of them are.

I remember the first time Doctor Morgan tried to convince me of that.

"I know this is hard to believe, Carina," she had said softly, "but not all men are bad."

I laughed—the sound bitter, sharp, cold.

"You're kidding, right?" My eyes flicked up to hers, daring her to argue. "Because in my experience, they're either monsters or cowards."

She hadn't flinched. Hadn't looked away. Instead, she leaned forward, hands resting lightly on the arms of her chair.

"I'm not saying what you went through wasn't horrific. It was. And I would never minimise that." Her voice was steady, commanding attention. "But if you believe that every man is like the ones who hurt you, you're letting them control you, even now."

A part of me had wanted to believe her.

A bigger part had refused.

And now, here I am.

Caught between caution and something darker.

Staring at Nate—a dangerous man, but differently—I don't know what to think anymore. How he looks at me—like he sees something no one else ever has—makes the edges of my world blur. His gaze is steady, smouldering, and unreadable.

I slowly sip my drink, using the moment to gather my thoughts. They're scattered, unravelling in ways I don't like. In ways that feel dangerous.

Nate doesn't look away.

He doesn't push.

Instead, he sits there, his presence wrapping around me like a quiet storm. There's an understanding between us, unspoken but absolute. We both feel this thing crackling in the air, sharp and electric. It's not normal.

It's messy. Twisted.

And maybe that's what makes it so damn intoxicating.

I break eye contact first.

Coward .

Glancing down at my food, I force myself to focus. I chew, swallow, and breathe. But my body betrays me. A flicker of warmth spreads through my chest, slow and insidious.

Because somewhere between the soft glow of the McDonald's lights and the low murmur of our conversation, something shifts.

Something dangerous.

And for the first time in a long time, I wonder if maybe…

I don't mind being this close to the edge.