POV Owen
I didn't know Lucille Alexander worked at a hospital.
Hell, how did she even get the job? Lucille is about as nurturing as a cobra with anger management issues. I've watched her torture information out of people without breaking a sweat, and now she's what—checking blood pressure and dispensing bedside manner?
The world's gone completely fucking insane.
Lucille Alexander.
Christ on a cracker. I thought I'd buried that particular nightmare in the past where it belongs, under years of trying to be something resembling a functional human being instead of a sociopathic killing machine.
She used to work for my father back when dear old dad was running operations that made Michael Morris look like a Sunday school teacher.
Lucille and I got paired up on missions more times than I care to remember—human trafficking rings, weapons deals, the kind of shit that keeps you awake at night if you're stupid enough to develop a conscience.
The woman was efficient, I'll give her that. Cold as liquid nitrogen and twice as deadly. Perfect for the job.
Problem was, somewhere along the way, she decided she was perfect for me too.
Always trying to prove herself, always pushing boundaries that weren't meant to be crossed. Lingering touches during briefings, suggestions that we could be "partners" in more ways than one.
She was decent enough, I guess, in that deadly-assassin-with-unresolved-mental-issues kind of way.
But I wasn't interested. Not in her, not in relationships, not in anything that could be weaponized against me. In our line of work, caring about someone is the fastest way to get them killed.
Or yourself killed. Or both, if you're particularly unlucky.
Relationships are a weakness. Attachments are liabilities. Love is a luxury that people like me can't afford.
That's why I kept things simple. Multiple women, no strings, no promises, no bullshit emotional entanglements. Get what I need, give them what they want, disappear before anyone starts picking out curtains or talking about meeting the parents.
Clean. Professional. Safe.
Or at least, that was the plan before a certain Morris princess decided to blow up my entire fucking worldview.
"I think you should head back to your job, Lucille," I say, stepping closer to where she's cornered Noelle like a predator with prey. "Stop harassing my girl."
The words slip out before I can catch them, and I see something light up in Noelle's eyes. Something that looks dangerously close to hope mixed with surprise.
Fuck me sideways…
"Your girl." Lucille's voice drips with enough venom to kill a small village. She laughs like I just announced I'm joining a monastery. "How… absolutely precious."
Lucille looks at Noelle with the kind of bitter hatred usually reserved for people who've stolen your parking spot and your will to live.
"Enjoy being one of his girls, sweetheart. The shelf life is about three months, give or take."
She walks away, heels clicking against the hospital floor like a death march countdown, and I'm left standing there with Noelle staring at me like I just revealed I'm actually an alien from Mars.
"Care to explain what the hell that was about?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.
In that way that means I'm about to be interrogated by someone who probably missed her calling as a CIA operative.
"I'll take the Diet Coke to my mom," I say, grabbing the can from the vending machine before it can get stuck again. "We'll talk in the car."
"Owen—"
"In the car, Noelle."
The walk back to my mother's room is the longest thirty seconds of my adult life.
Mom takes the soda with a smile that says she knows exactly what kind of drama just exploded in the hallway, but she's too diplomatic to ask pointed questions.
"Take care of yourself, Owen," she says, squeezing my hand with the kind of maternal concern that makes my chest tight. "And bring Noelle back soon. I like her."
"I will, Mom."
The walk to the car feels like a death march.
Noelle's silent beside me, but I can practically hear the gears grinding in her head. She's processing, calculating, trying to figure out how much of Lucille's poisonous commentary was actually true.
Answer: probably most of it, unfortunately.
We get in the car, and she immediately turns to face me with the focus of a laser-guided missile.
"So. You and Lucille used to work together."
"Yeah."
"Doing what, exactly?"
I start the engine, buying myself a few precious seconds to figure out how much ugly truth she can handle.
Then I remember she watched me execute someone in her backyard three days ago, so apparently her tolerance for moral flexibility is higher than originally advertised.
"The kind of jobs that pay extremely well and don't ask uncomfortable questions about your moral compass."
"Jesus Christ, Owen…"
"My father's business empire. I was born into it, trained for it, and unfortunately good at it." I pull out of the parking lot, keeping my eyes on traffic because looking at her right now would probably shatter what's left of my self-control. "Lucille was one of his best operatives. We got paired up frequently."
"And she was...?"
"Interested in making our partnership more personal. I wasn't interested in reciprocating."
"Why not?"
"Because relationships are fucking dangerous in that world. They make you weak, make you sloppy, make you care about things other than staying alive to see tomorrow."
"So you had multiple women instead."
It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with the kind of calm that usually precedes someone setting your entire life on fire.
"Yeah. I did."
"How many?"
The question hits like a physical blow. "Does it matter?"
"It matters to me."
I stop at a red light and finally look at her. Really look at her.
This girl who's managed to crack every wall I've built, who makes me want things I shouldn't want, who makes me forget every survival rule I've ever learned.
"Enough that I stopped counting," I admit, because lying to her feels impossible now. "Never the same woman twice. Never longer than a few weeks. Never anything resembling emotional attachment."
"And now?"
The light turns green, but I don't move.
Cars start honking behind us, but I ignore them because this moment feels like it might determine the rest of my fucking existence.
"Now everything's different."
"How different?"
"Different enough that hearing Lucille call you one of my girls made me want to put her through the nearest wall."
"Owen."
"Different enough that the thought of you being hurt makes me physically ill."
"Owen…"
"Different enough that I'm sitting in traffic having the most terrifying conversation of my life instead of running like hell."
"Who am I to you, Owen?"
The question hangs in the air between us like a live grenade with the pin already pulled. I could lie.
I could give her some bullshit answer about professional boundaries and keeping things uncomplicated.
Instead, I tell her the truth that's been eating me alive for weeks.
"You're my angel. The one person who makes me want to be something better than what I am."