POV Owen
The gunshot echoes across the lawn like a judge's gavel. Final, absolute, case fucking closed.
The man crumples in front of me like a marionette whose strings just got cut, hitting the ground with a dull thud that somehow sounds louder than the bullet that put him there.
I should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Hesitation. Even basic human regret.
Instead, all I feel is cold, clean satisfaction.
This man won't be ordering any more hits. Won't be using his son as a weapon. Won't be threatening the Morris family ever again.
Problem solved. Job completed. Another name crossed off the list of people stupid enough to start wars they can't finish.
Until I turn my head and see her.
Noelle.
Standing maybe ten feet away, face white as fresh snow, eyes wide enough to drown in. Her mouth is open like she can't decide whether to scream or vomit, and the absolute horror painted across her features hits me harder than any recoil ever could.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck
"Noelle—" I take a step toward her, but she's already moving.
Just turns and runs like the devil himself is chasing her. Shoes slapping against concrete, arms pumping, running like her life depends on putting distance between us.
Which, let's be honest, it probably does.
I run after her because what else am I supposed to do? Let her spiral into hysteria alone?
"Noelle!" My voice cracks the night air like another gunshot. "Stop!"
She doesn't. She hits the back door, shoves it open with hands that are shaking so hard she can barely work the handle, and I catch her just inside the hallway.
Her back is to me, shoulders rigid, spine straight like she's bracing for another bullet. She's breathing hard, each exhale sharp and shallow.
I reach for her arm. "Angel, wait—"
She spins around and shoves me hard in the chest with both hands. Not hard enough to move me, but hard enough to make her point.
"Who the hell are you?" she shouts, voice cracking like broken glass. "What the hell was that? What did I just see?"
Her whole body is shaking. I can feel it when I catch her wrist, trying to steady her, but she rips her arm away and stares at me like I'm a complete stranger.
Like the man she's been seducing just revealed himself to be a monster.
"You weren't supposed to see that," I say, keeping my voice low and controlled.
"Well I fucking did!" she snaps. "I saw everything! I watched you murder that man!"
The word hangs between us like an accusation.
Murder.
Not execution. Not doing my job.
Murder.
I exhale through my nose, forcing out words I know will shatter what's left of her innocence.
"You do realize what your father does for a living, right?"
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. Just bitterness and disbelief. "I know he does dirty business, Owen. But how dirty are we talking here?"
I step closer. She doesn't flinch, doesn't back down, just stands there waiting for the truth she's not ready to hear.
"Dirty enough," I say, voice dropping, "to make people disappear without a trace."
Her breath catches like someone just punched her in the solar plexus. I watch reality hit her—watch the comfortable lies she's been living crumble behind her eyes like a house of cards in a hurricane.
Shit. I didn't mean to say it like that.
Didn't mean to be the wrecking ball that destroys the pretty little world Michael's been so desperate to preserve.
This is exactly what he didn't want her to know. He's paying me to keep her safe, to keep her hands clean, to let her believe daddy's just a successful businessman with flexible ethics.
And I just took a sledgehammer to that illusion.
She blinks hard, fighting tears she refuses to shed.
"Oh my God," she whispers, and then she's running again, this time toward the stairs.
"Noelle!"
I follow her, taking the steps two at a time, heart hammering against my ribs. Rodriguez is still stationed near the back hallway, looking confused by all the commotion.
"Go," I bark at him. "I'm taking over tonight."
He doesn't argue, just nods and disappears. Smart man.
Noelle's bedroom door slams before I can reach it, but locks are suggestions when you know what you're doing.
I push it open and step inside to find her pacing the room like a caged animal, arms wrapped around herself like she can hold the pieces together through sheer force of will.
"You can't just… Just kill someone like that!" she screams at me, voice raw with horror and betrayal. "Like it's nothing! Like it's part of your job description! What the fuck kind of job is that?"
"The kind that keeps you breathing," I say quietly.
"Bullshit!" She grabs a pillow from her bed and hurls it at my head.
Then another. Then a framed photo from her nightstand, which I catch mid-flight before it can shatter against the wall.
"You don't get to come into my life and make me feel safe and then show me this!" Her voice breaks on the last word. "You don't— You don't get to ruin everything like that!"
I don't argue. Don't try to justify or explain or make excuses.
Instead, I cross the room in three strides and frame her face with my hands, fingers splayed against her jaw, tilting her head up even as she trembles beneath my touch.
And I kiss her.
Not gentle. Not sweet. Not the kind of kiss that says I'm sorry or promises everything will be okay.
I kiss her like I'm trying to erase what she saw. Like I can kiss the screaming out of her head, replace the horror with something else.
Something that might make her hate me and want me in equal measure.
Her hands hit my chest, trying to push me away. Then she fists them in my shirt and pulls me closer instead, like she can't decide if she wants to fight me or consume me.
Her mouth is soft and desperate, her breath ragged as she melts and rages against me simultaneously.
I kiss her like I need it to breathe, like I want her to forget everything except the way we fit together even when the world makes no goddamn sense. When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
Her lips are red and swollen, eyes glassy with something more complicated than fear.
"I hate you," she whispers, but her hands are still fisted in my shirt.
"I know."
"I hate what you do."
"I know that too."
"I hate that I still want you anyway."
"Angel," I say, voice rough as sandpaper, "you have no fucking idea what you want."
But she does. I can see it in her eyes, in the way she's looking at me like I'm salvation and damnation wrapped in the same package.
And God help us both, because I want her too.
Even covered in another man's blood. Even with his death on my hands and her horror fresh between us.
I want her anyway. We're both going to hell for this.
“Strip.”