TRIGGER WARNING!

Knives, Stab Wound, Mild Violence.

_

[WILLIAM]

⑅

THERE ARE MANY THINGS I WON'T TELL HER, and details of death is one of them. I know she won't be able to handle it—she's the kind of person to tell a licensed killer to stop killing.

A part of me has grown to be...attached to her. Not in a 'attached due to my job' way, but in my own terms. I can be honest with myself when I say that. When I got demoted from my original position, I thought I'd hate being stuck babysitting a spoiled rich-girl.

She's not spoiled. She's not rich. I don't hate her.

There's something alluring to the way she doesn't give a damn about me, and I like that. She doesn't care that I'm supposed to kill people; in fact, she yells at me for it. She hated even being near me, but now she questions why I don't walk beside her.

It's a dangerous thing to feel attached to a person, but I don't regret it. Perhaps it's part of my job as well. If I hadn't had my eyes on her for as long as I did, then I wouldn't have noticed the lurking threat.

"God I've missed you," her sod-of-a-boyfriend said.

Relationships are far from my area of expertise, and I'm proud to say I've never been in one, but I can tell when a man is using a woman for his own benefit. Kent does that to Lovey, and it drives me bloody insane—she's good for his publicity, she's beautiful, she's possibly good in other areas (which I will not be thinking about), and she's oblivious to the fact that she means practically nothing to him.

I'm not insinuating that I'd be a better option for her, because I'm not an option to begin with. I'm simply giving my opinion on the situation.

I had half a mind to follow them to the restaurant booth, but something caught my eye. A waiter brushed past me when I first walked in. A second waiter did the same not even a minute after I walked inside. From behind the kitchen door, I noticed a chef glance in my direction for more than he needed too.

Nobody had eyes on Lovey. All of their eyes were on me.

Shit.

I almost didn't register the shadow of a fist sweeping towards me, too shocked to fathom a response. I caught it in the palm of my hand, just before it could hit me square in the face.

"Alright then," I frowned, "let's dance."

Tightening my grip around the caught fist, I twisted my attacker's arm until I heard a loud crack ring out into the air. Then the scream. You'd think they'd think twice before picking a fight with someone who was trained to kill—no mercy or hesitation.

Kicking the wailing man to the ground, I did a quick sweep around the room, counting six men. Five of them I analyzed quickly; there was one burlier man I knew would be more of a challenge.

I like to think of these situations as a masquerade. Everyone knows who everyone is by the glimmers of their face, but no one knows anything about each other—but that doesn't stop us from dancing. In this case, fighting. I don't know who the hell these men are, and they sure as hell don't know me, but we're both here for the same reason.

So, let the party start.

I took the first man down by bashing his head into a table. It flipped over on itself, forks and napkins cluttering around my feet like an avalanche. If it was just the two of us, I would have debated killing him, but that wasn't the case. I had other people to dance with.

The second man had grabbed a knife from one of the other tables. A butter knife, the dullest blade known to humankind. If that didn't tell me anything about this group's intelligence, I don't know what would. Chop to the arm, kick in the knee, punch to the face; he didn't get the chance to use his measly weapon.

Two men ran at me next. One of them had a flicker of fear in their eyes, no doubt grown from the image of me dominating his previous partners. The other one just looked wild and crazy. Ducking a swing, I rolled onto the ground, grabbing both of their ankles and pulling them off of their balance.

A third man was running at me now, but I was still occupied with the other two brats. Hopping onto my feet, I grabbed a wooden chair, swung it over my head, and sent it flying into my attacker's face. Bending down, I grabbed the remaining men's collars, lifting their heads and smashing them together. Crack. I loved that sound.

But then left the burly man.

To be honest, I'd forgotten about him, because my focus was depleting at a fascinating rate. When I felt someone tackle me from behind, then I remembered. Flying into the wall, I winced when my back hit the stone walls and sent me falling into a heap on the floor.

"Fine, then," I spat out, letting out a thin groan. "Have it your way."

I barely had a chance to stand up on my feet when the man grabbed me by the shirt, punching me in the jaw with raw power. There was ringing in my ears and a bitter taste in my mouth. I spit it out. Blood.

Clenching my teeth, I lurched myself backwards, planting my feet against his chest and shoving him off me. Rolling onto my feet, I slowly stood up, cracking my neck as I stared my opponent down. He had tripped over his partner's unconscious bodys, but was still standing.

And out of his pocket, he pulled a switchblade. He arched his brows as if almost to say: Scared?

I gave him a disgusted look, then lifted the back of my shirt to pull out my own. Hell no, I'm not. Only an imbecile would think I wouldn't have a weapon of my own. Flipping it into my palm, I ran at him, jumping over broken chairs and tables. It had been a while since I'd gone blade-to-blade with someone.

He swung first. Moving my arm out of the way, I worked my way around him, slashing my knife anywhere I could. I'd only managed to get a few scratches before he was facing me again.

Another swipe. Another jab. I was too busy dodging his attacks to make any of my own. Moments later I had found myself backed up against the wall, ducking another swing of his arm. This wasn't good. I only had one option to deter him, since it was clear my ordinary tricks couldn't help me in this situation.

Twisting my wrist, I chucked my dagger straight at his face. I knew he'd dodge it straightaway, so as soon as he made the slightest movement, I used it to my advantage. Curving around him, I ran back towards the center of the room, searching for anything I could use to my advantage.

Chairs wouldn't work on him. I couldn't swing a table. Butter knives are literally butter knives, and forks and spoons are pathetic.

The tablecloths.

The man was already upon me again when I had yanked the checkered fabric into my hand, but I had a plan. As soon as his hand grazed my shoulder, I threw the tablecloth over my head, hooking it behind his neck and crossing it into a tie. Gasping for breath, he fell to his knees, clawing at the cloth to get it to loosen. I kept my grip as tightly as I could, shoving him onto his back so he couldn't try anything else.

But I'd forgotten he had his own weapon. In a final desperate attempt, he let go of the cloth, picking up his switchblade and plunging it into my shoulder.

My mouth fell open, but I didn't scream.

Grabbing his face with my hand, I shoved it into the ground without a trace of mercy. He was out cold. I let out a breath, pain seeping through my body—you couldn't see the blood spilling onto my black shirt, but I could feel all of it.

The worst part about getting stabbed is that you can't remove the blade. Not yet at least. I stood with another groan, looking around at the empty restaurant. Six men on the floor, lucky they weren't dead.

With all the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I almost forgot why I was standing in the middle of the restaurant. My head whipped towards the back of the room when I heard the sound of heightened voices coming from one of the booths.

Lovey.

Running towards it, I wrenched open the door so hard, one of the hinges breaking off completely. It clattered to the floor, but there was a ringing in my ears so loud I barely heard it. My senses went numb at the sight. Percy Kent had his hands on her collar, eyebrows furrowed as he yelled something incoherent at her. She looked scared. Then she looked at me. There was only one thing on my mind:

Percy Kent is going to die.

I don't remember how I got there, but the scumbag was being pressed up against the wall with my hands around his throat before I could blink. Lovey had fallen to the floor, a result of Kent's fear. I heard her head hit the table; that only made me hate him more.

"You kill me, they ruin her," the man splattered out, choking through my hands, "everyone knows we were here today. You know they'll blame her if I end up dead."

I shoved him harder into the wall. "Unfortunately for you, I don't care if you're dead."

"But you care about her, yeah?"

"Not anymore than you do."

It was a lie, and he saw right through it. I couldn't even feel my face through the anger to know how evident it was. He laughed hysterically, like his eyes would pop out of his sockets and his veins would burst. Maybe it was because I was slowly taking away his breath. Maybe it was because he was insane.

"Oh, oh, oh, we both know that's not true," he wheezed out, "you wouldn't be here right now if you didn't."

What was his game? If there wasn't one, I would have killed him as soon as I could. But I couldn't let him die without knowing why. Was he working with the Ash Duo? Was he with them? Hell.

I tightened my grip. "It's my job to protect her. That's all."

"Then protect her," he slurred, "killing me will only make her life worse."

He was right. I could barely take it when she saw me kill for the first time, and if I killed someone she loved (or loves, or never loved), she might hate me forever. I don't know if I'm strong enough to come to terms with that anymore.

Drawing back my hands, I let him collapse the the floor, a blubbering mess. I wondered if he was grateful that Lovey saved his life, even though he tried to take hers.

"Your men," I spat out, "I'm guessing they were yours that were following us all this time."

Kent was a heaping mess. "Yes."

"How did you find us?"

Even through his pain, he managed a sick, twisted smirk. Raising hand towards Lovey's unconscious body, he scoffed. "She did that all herself."

I thought this was another one of his insane factors, but when I looked at the woman's body, a small glimmer caught my eye. Dangling off her neck, the daisy necklace was lying innocently like it was nothing more than pieces of metal.

I didn't need to think twice before bending down and snapping it off. A tracker. At that moment, I exhaled a sigh of relief that the Safe-House was void of any connection, otherwise we would have been found earlier than we'd expected. Throwing the necklace onto the ground, I crushed it under the sole of my boot before bending over Kent—still weak and on the floor.

"Now, here's where you're going to listen," I said harshly, "I'm going to ask some questions, and you're going to tell me the truth. If you so much as lie once, you'll be left with a lot more pain than a bruising neck."

Percy's lips quivered at that. Good.

"Why are you trying to kill her?" I urged.

The man shook his head. "I'm not. They are."

"They?"

"The Ashes."

"From what I know, they're supposed to be after you," I seethed, grabbing him by the shirt, "so why are you safe and she's not?"

"I made a deal."

"What deal?"

"You know how they are," he blubbered, squirming against my grip, "those criminals. They don't care about who dies, just that someone does. I told them I'd get them their money in a few months, but they wanted collateral of some sort."

Collateral.

It all clicked in seconds. This massive sod traded his girlfriend to save his skin, and now the Ash Duo is after her until he gets them their money. Even thinking about it made my blood boil. She didn't deserve to be caught up in this, and the fact that Kent willingly offered her up was disgusting.

He disgusted me.

"So you brought her to Paris as a trap," I finished for him, "you were leading her straight towards them, weren't you?"

He nodded.

"Call it off. Now."

"I can't do that."

Somehow my fist crashed into his face. Whoops. "You're going to let an innocent woman pay for your damn mistakes?" I didn't let him answer before answering myself. "You will. Because you're a pathetic man, who has nothing but a flimsy title and no self-worth."

Shoving him back towards the ground, I gave him one last look, before punching him hard enough to knock him out. My heart was pounding—I forgot it could do that. Casting a glance towards the other end of the booth, I saw Lovey's body lying limp on the floor.

My heart ached instead.

⚘

SHE WOKE WHEN I WAS CLEANING MY WOUNDS.

I didn't want her to see them. They clashed with my scars, some of which had nearly faded back into skin, and they made me feel more like a scratch-off poster than a person. They made me someone to look at; I never liked being looked at.

I wanted to be done with my business before she woke up, but I suppose a concussion doesn't stop Lovey from sticking her nose in everything. The room had a slight chill to it when her eyes locked onto me, almost as if she'd gazed a block of freezing ice onto where my stab wound lay. A dark, bloody gash just beneath my shoulder.

I tried to ignore her, and to finish swabbing the cuts with some alcohol I found underneath the bed, but as usual, she had to say something. Just not something I expected.

"Your shirt's off," she blabbed.

[y/n]. For heaven's sake.

I looked up at her, unsure of whether to smile or frown. She was unprophetically stupid when it came to acknowledging blood. I noticed it when I killed a man in front of her. I'm noticing it now, when she's watching me with absolute horror, but not sure what to say.

"What a kind observation," I winced, pressing a cotton swab into my shoulder. Pain, bloody pain. "It's easier to clean a hole in my body when my shirt's off."

"Sorry."

"You didn't stab me."

"I'm so sorry, I swear."

"I said you didn't stab me, Lovey."

"This is all my fault," she whimpered. I heard a crack in her voice, and looked up in alarm. I recognized that sound all too well. There's always a crack before the dam breaks, and the waters flood. "You're hurt, and this is all my fault."

"Bloody hell, don't cry—"

She was crying.

To be fair, she had suffered a concussion, was assaulted by her (hopefully ex) boyfriend, had been knocked out for a few hours, and was now waking up to see me sitting on the floor with knife-punctures and scars all over my upper-body.

This marks the third time she's cried in front of me. This time seemed different. Before, she had gotten shot at, then she saw me murder a man in cold-blood. Now, she was crying for a reason I didn't know. Was it because of Kent? Her Head? Or possibly me (highly unlikely).

"Stop it, please," I said blankly.

Her hand was covering her entire face, but I could still hear her sniffling like a baby.

"Lovey, stop crying."

She only cried more. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"I can't help it."

"Yeah, clearly," I sighed, setting down the cotton swab. I didn't like hearing her cry—not because it made me feel pity for her, or anything—but because it was bloody annoying. "You're chewing my ear off, for god's sake—"

I cut myself off.

For a man who had never felt compassion in his life before, all he needed to do was look for a second. It wasn't intentional. I simply glanced back up to tell her to cease her whines, but was frozen still by what I saw.

She had taken her hand away from her face, and was now staring at me with the fiercest intensity anyone had ever given me. All the times she had cried before, she had hidden her face or cried towards the floor. Now she was letting her tears shine like tiny mirrors, reflecting my cruelty back onto me.

It was simple what she was saying: crying doesn't mean I'm weak. I thought she was being a child, or annoying me when she cried, but now I realized she was doing it because she had to. Because, unlike me, she could feel things.

Somehow, that made me feel something too.

Reaching over the pile of supplies I'd displayed out for myself, I picked up my shirt. I had tried to scrub off the blood as best as I could, but it was still damp and lightly stained. I threw it on anyway, standing onto my feet.

And then I sat. Right next to her, on the springy mattress that squeaked. I wasn't sure what I was doing, but a part of me just wanted to know. To feel. It was the way she looked at me just then—like she knew me so well, and if I didn't try to know her, then she'd hate me more.

Raising my arm, I paused. This was abnormal. I lifted it up and over her head, hovering awkwardly around her back, while my other arm curved in front. At first I couldn't bring myself to close the gap, but then I gave in.

My skin grazed against the fabric of her dress, and then against her own. Warm to the touch. I thought I'd melt if I stayed any longer.

"Are you trying to hug me?" She asked quietly.

I pursed my lips. "Yes."

I'll admit it was less than satisfactory, nor did it seem normal in any way, but at least she had stopped crying. I tried. That's the most I can say for myself.

"Oh," she said, "well, do it better then."

I scoffed. "You're so bloody picky."

She shifted her weight, leaning her body against me. Almost as an instinct, I flinched away, but pulled myself back. She was the only thing that wasn't dangerous to me. I had to remind myself of that.

I felt her smile into my chest. She didn't respond.

We'll meet again....Music started playing from the other side of the wall. Abilene, the old woman, was playing her favourite record. Don't know where, don't know when...

Lovey raised her hand towards her neck, as if she wanted to touch something. Nothing was there. She let out a sigh when she realized the Daisy Necklace was gone. Or maybe she realized how terrible Kent truly was.

"I'm sorry about him," I said. My arms were still stiff around her, but I found myself slowly relaxing into it. "I wish I could have seen it coming."

She murmured against my chest. "I can't trust anyone now."

"Anyone?"

"You're an obvious exclusion." She paused. "What about Mori? Were they working with him?"

Ah, yes. Her best friend, the fashion designer. I'd almost forgotten all about them, after being caught up in a string of messes every hour of the day.

"I'm going to pay them a visit tomorrow and find out for myself," I said surely.

Lovey nodded. "I'm coming with you."

"You know I wouldn't leave you behind, Lovey. I can't."

"Right. Sorry." She paused again, thinking things through. There was a lot on her mind, I could tell, because there was a lot on mine too. "Just promise me you won't hurt them."

"I can't promise that."

"They're still my best friend."

"Yet they could be working with Kent. If they hurt you, I have no choice but to hurt them."

"And what stops you from getting hurt yourself?"

She sat up, pushing me away from her so she could point at my shoulder. She'd seen my injuries. Clearly she hadn't forgotten. I wondered why she cared so much about them; they came with the body I lived with.

"I'm alive, and that means I'm doing my job," I said. My arms were at my side again. "Pain hurts less when it's mine and not yours."

But I know we'll meet again some sunny day...The music interrupted our conversation.

The hairs on my skin were standing up. Was this....anxiety I felt? My veins felt icy cold the more I looked at her—almost like she was making me nervous. No one made me nervous. I'd learned not to let trivial emotions get in the way.

Yet I never learned to stop her from getting in my way. They never offered that class back at the academy. I wish they did.

"You should get some sleep," I said under my breath, looking away.

"I don't feel like sleeping," she said.

"Why not?"

She didn't respond, but instead smiled. Eyes wide and blinking, staring up at me as if she had zero thoughts occupying her mind except for what she saw.

"Do you remember how we met?" She asked.

I furrowed my brow. "It wasn't that long ago."

"But do you remember?"

"Yes."

"We were reading the same book," she sighed, falling back onto her pillow. A flash of my memory came back as soon as she mentioned it. "I tried to talk to you, but you ignored me."

I pursed my lips. "I know."

"Read it to me."

"What?"

"The book," she grinned. "Read it to me and I'll go to sleep."

If anyone was witness to her negotiating with me, I would have killed them free of charge. Every single second that passed, I felt like she was testing her limits with me. I didn't even know if I had limits with her anymore.

Her copy of the book was still at her hotel room—which was probably ransacked by the Ash Duo's men. But I still had mine. It was the only book I'd ever found time to read. I'll admit there was a sliver of surprise when I saw her reading it too, but I didn't know her then—she was a spoiled-rich-brat in my mind. I know she's not that at all now.

Bending to reach underneath the bed, I pulled out my small leather satchel and unzipped it. I pulled out the yellow cover with the maroon lettering and engraved flowers on the spine. The Curo Society.

"From where?" I asked.

Lovey snuggled into the mattress, watching me. "Start from your favourite part."

I knew exactly where that was. Chapter 5, page 62. Flipping it open, I ran my thumb against the thin paper.

"'Stubborn people never fear death'" I read, "'and I, the most stubborn of us all, don't fear death either.'"

Before I turned the page, I glanced at her, watching as she mumbled the words along with me as I went. She knew the story more than I. I kept reading.

"They all knew he was foolish. Someone was dying, and all Edmund could do was call the boy stubborn for not fearing death. It was in his nature; compassion in the strangest way. In his arms, the boy died, and Edmund's heart broke.

'You killed him,' he called out into the darkness. 'You killed him but left me.'

It all happened so quickly, that Edmund couldn't tell whether his life had been spared, or if he was lucky not to have been standing where the boy way—where the boy was killed. He wanted to yell, even though he knew the killer was no longer there.

'Why me?' He questioned, 'why am I still alive?'

The moon was no longer bright. Almost muddy and grey, shadowing the guilt that slowly creeped over Edmund's heart," I read, turning the page, "and for the last time, he called out again."

"I'm the life you didn't take." Lovey whispered the next phrase under her breath, like she had the whole book memorized from front to back. "Surely that means something."

I closed the book.

"Why'd you stop?" She yawned.

"You're falling asleep."

"I'm not tired."

"Yes, you are," I said, the faintest trace of a smile creeping onto my lips. She was just as stubborn as the characters in my book. "Get some rest."

I got up to leave, the mattress squeaking under the loss of my weight, but then I felt her grab onto my wrist. I turned, staring down at her.

"Stay," she said quietly. "I feel safer that way."

My chest ached at that. Safe? Around me?

But still, I nodded my head, pulling myself across the mattress until I had settled myself against the crook of the wall. I could feel the vibrations of the record against my back. She was laying in front of me, a few inches apart, and cheek pressed against the pillow.

It felt awkward to stare at her. I'd grown accustomed to only seeing the back of her head when she walked in front of me, or a petty frown on her lips. She seemed peaceful this time. Something too perfect for me to stain with my gaze.

She passed out completely in less than a few minutes. Always an easy dreamer, she is. One in a while, she'd dig her knees into my thigh, or slap her hand on my face as she slept, and I freaked myself out from the sudden touch. It took me an hour to stop flinching and get used to it.

We'll meet again, the record played, Don't know where, don't know when.

Lovey's body shifted again, and I watched as she began to fall off the mattress like she had done every night since we'd met. I gently grabbed her waist, doing my best not to wake her as I pulled her back onto the bed.

"Not on my watch," I whispered to myself.

As I tried to remove my arm, she suddenly lurched forward, a spasm of limbs attacking me like a squid-out-of-water. The terrified noise I let out was one I never thought I'd never hear me say. She'd wrapped herself around me like I was her personal toy bear.

"What the bloody hell, Lovey," I strained, my body freezing up, "what the hell."

I tried to shake her off, but to no avail. Hell. And to think the only time I've ever been controlled in my life was because a woman with atrocious sleeping habits managed to wrestle her way on top of me, while asleep. Bloody outrageous.

But I know we'll meet again, the walls sang.

She was warm (which is a good thing, because if she was cold, she would most likely be dead), but I found it strangely comforting. I never liked being touched, especially not by someone I've never met—but that isn't the case with her anymore.

She knows me more than anyone now. I can't remember the last time anyone knew more than my name and employee number.

Some sunny day... The song stopped playing.

I looked at her again, head nestled into my chest, and arms nearly suffocating me to death. I felt something strange in my stomach, like a bat had been shoved down my throat and was flying around and crashing into my organs. I hated it, but it wouldn't go away.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was because of her. And the more I thought of her, the less it felt strange. Perhaps the bat became a butterfly, and the butterfly the sound of two hearts beating close together.

So, in a dark room in Paris, I let myself fall asleep too.