[LOVEY]

⚘

I WOULDN'T MIND DYING IN PARIS.

Of all the places I've been to in the world, none of them make me feel as euphoric as the 'City of Love'. It's almost as if the atmosphere is clouded with pure charm, meant to leave me dizzy with admiration. It may be the tourist in my heart saying that, but I'd never tire of being here.

My journey off the train was a little less than satisfactory, however, because my own clumsiness got in the way.

The stranger—who didn't seem keen on conversing with me—was still nose-deep in his book when the train stopped. When I began to collect my things, I noticed his eyes flicker up to watch me throttle my luggage into the aisle, silently judging me in my mind. I had a feeling he watched me leave the train as well (although I was confused upon his lack of urgency to exit. We'd reach the end of the line—the train couldn't take him further).

Not only that, but I ended up tripping over my toes when exiting the station. A nasty heave in the concrete had unfortunately gone unnoticed. I gathered myself, promptly continuing towards my destination.

Percy arranged for my stay at the Coeur De Paris, a favoured hotel by both him and his royal family members. I hated the thought of the expense—something told me it was worth more than a month's salary at my past job. I used to work in Fashion Retail, but when I started dating Perce, I was instructed to stay away from any public-interacting jobs.

One bad review was one bad article. He didn't like the idea of the press knowing where I worked, either.

I wasn't a house-wife, however, nor was I a house-girlfriend, because I didn't attend to his estate when he was off on business. He had people for that. I simply lived in my own space, and went wherever he instructed me too.

That's why I'm in Paris. He asked me to come.

And perhaps he was also to propose.

I liked the idea of it, but the more I thought about it, I felt tense. I hardly ever saw him, due to his busy schedules and responsibilities, but something told me it would be worse when married. I wasn't sure if I even wanted kids, or wanted a pet—we never took it upon ourselves to discuss the future when we did see each other.

"Welcome, Miss Lovey," the manager said, "Profitez de votre séjour ici."

I had only just checked in to the Coeur De Paris, when I realized how out of place I already felt. I came from a reasonable background, but still, such wealth was extraordinary to my eyes.

The hotel was glimmering against the sunlit windows, reflecting beams off the sleek gold columns. From the very top of the ceiling hung a crystal chandelier, with more rings than I could count. I tried not to trip over my feet when ascending the large staircase towards the upper floors, because I knew how clumsy I was, and snapping my neck was not one of my wishes.

I was led towards my room (Suite 6, Floor 12) and told my luggage would be sent up in a matter of moments. I was eager to see what my room looked like, so as soon as the Bell-Hop that had accompanied me was out of sight, I unlocked my door and slipped inside.

Beauty, truly, that's what I saw.

Everything had been perfectly positioned around the room—the mahogany desk right next to the view of the Paris skyline, a bed with white, satin sheets by the corner, a large wardrobe with a complimentary robe hung up inside—my heart jumped in excitement.

I walked towards the window, tracing my hands along the curtains and pushing them aside. I could see the Eiffel Tower from where I stood; a dazzling structure of pure history. One could never tire of such a beautiful city. I'd hardly think those who lived here would disagree, either.

The sound of rushing water came filtering in through the bathroom, and I flinched in my spot. I thought I was alone.

"Percy?" I called out, squinting my eyes towards the closed door.

No response.

At the sound of my voice, I heard the squeak of a knob being turned, and the water stopped running. It was eerily silent. and I felt the hairs on my back stand up anxiously, questioning whether or not I had gone unheard.

"Hello?" I asked once again, hoping for an answer, "Perce, is that you?"

While no words were spoken back, I noticed the handle to the restroom door slowly twitch with movement. Alarm surged through my body, and I quickly scoured the room for anything I could use to defend myself. A remote, an ashtray, a room service binder.

I grabbed the crystal ashtray, clutching it in my hands as I faced the door. Leaving seemed like a more reasonable option, but there could be the possibility that it was Percy, and he was playing one of his measly pranks on me again. Besides, if it wasn't, I wanted to see the face of my intruder.

The door slowly creaked open.

There was nothing and no one for a moment, and my sanity was put on the line while I stood frozen to my spot. Then, a figure stepped into view. I only let my eyes grace their features for a second, before letting out a terrified scream and chucking the ashtray towards them.

Whoever they were, they were definitely not Percy. I prepared to make a mad dash for the exit, when I realized they had caught the ashtray in their hand, stepping quickly into the hall—I had to go through them in order to get to the door.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Miss Lovey," they said calmly, setting the ashtray onto the desk, "so please don't scream like an animal."

The voice seemed trained, emotionless, and void of any familiarity. The depth of it told me they were a man, and I backed towards the window to be as far away from them as possible. Pressing myself against the opposite wall, I let myself get a good look at their face through the panic coursing through my veins.

Blue eyes, narrow jaw, brown hair pushed back on the sides. Chestnut cardigan, grey turtleneck. Him.

"You!" I spat out, the blood rushing to my face in shock.

It was the man from the train—the stranger who had been reading the same book as me. Was it truly a coincidence? Or was he a mindless stalker that followed me from the train and to my hotel? What was more shocking, was the fact that he spoke. Not a word had been bribed from him on the journey here, and yet now he has the audacity to break into my room and ask me not to scream in terror.

"Stay the hell away from me," I urged, eyes aflame, "don't bloody come near me."

The man didn't blink. "It's not in my interest to, Miss Lovey."

"How do you know my name?"

"That's a question for a later time," he said smoothly. I felt my heartbeat quickening at an alarming rate, watching him lean up against the patterned paper of the room's walls. His hands were in the pockets of his trousers; casual, as if he wasn't a threat. "Please, sit."

I ignored his request, lunging for the remote and throwing it towards him. I knew it wouldn't do severe damage, but I wanted to make it clear I wasn't going to go down without a struggle. Creeps like him picked on women they thought were 'easy'—I wasn't.

"It's in your best interest not to fight me, Miss Lovey," he said, catching the remote in his hand like before, "my habits may overbear my mind if you continue."

Habits. At his words, my gaze flickered to the scar beneath his eyes. When I saw it on the train, I knew there was something irregular about it. He was no stranger to violence.

"Besides," he continued, "I know you're not a fighter."

I scoffed. "You don't know anything about me."

"With all due respect, I know everything about you."

I didn't respond.

He seemed to take my shocked silence as an opening for continuation, because he slowly began to step towards me. I reached for the binder this time. The phone for the lobby desk was sitting beside the television, but I didn't know the numbers. I was stuck.

"I know why you're in Paris," the man said, nearing even closer, "I know Percy Kent arranged for this room, and I also know you're expecting to be engaged by the time you go back to London. Congratulations, I suppose."

"You're a filthy stalker." I scoffed in disgust.

"Not intentionally. It's my job to know everything about you."

"That still makes you a filthy stalker."

He stopped in front of me, eyes flickering down towards the binder in my hand. I debated swatting it at him, but he didn't give me time to. Extending his arm, he plucked it from my grasp, tossing it onto the bed beside us.

He stood there, only looking at me. He didn't touch me. He didn't leave my eyes. I could only sense the gears turning in his mind as he lowered his voice to speak once more.

"Believe me, Miss Lovey," he said thinly, almost spitefully. "I don't want to be here any more than you do."

I couldn't step back. I was already against the wall. "Then why are you?"

"My job requires me to."

"And what is your job, exactly?" I lined my words with extra spite.

He didn't budge from my temper. I scanned his—outlandishly attractive, as I am now seeing from this close—face, noticing his dull expression. It was shielded from all aspects of emotion. Why are all the pretty men so mean?

"To be frank," he said slowly, "I'm here to kill the people who are trying to kill you."

I scanned his face for jest. His words were pathetically phrased, and the idea behind it was ridiculous. Is his job in the comedy department? He sounds like a clown. I came to Paris to be engaged. I didn't come here to be harrassed in the privacy of my own room, invaded by a stranger, and have my life seemingly stalked.

I narrowed my eyes, clenching my teeth. "Who the hell would be trying to kill me?"

The man's eyes darkened. He seemed unamused by my ignorance. My first guess would be that he was the one who wanted to kill me, but that clearly wasn't the case. I noticed his eyes flicker towards my clenched fist, stepping back voluntarily. A man like him wasn't scared of a punch—he just didn't want to touch me.

"You'd be surprised," he said sharply.

I narrowed my eyes into slits. "Surprise me, then."

"Are you usually this stubborn?"

"Are you usually this stupid?" I hissed, "read the room, Psycho, I'm not the one who broke into someone's room."

The lid of his left eye twitched when I called him that. Psycho, my brain taunted once more. Taking a step away from me, he clicked his tongue, turning towards the other end of the room.

I watched him shove his hands into the pockets of his trousers, but it was clear he was suppressing his own temper. He probably thought I'd be easy to convince. Girlfriend of a Duke, the papers would incite, only there for the money. Wimpy. Pathetically devoted to a man. Maybe it was a surprise to see I wasn't anything like that.

I pressed for more information. "Why are people trying to kill me?"

The man didn't speak, collecting himself for another moment. Anger-Issues, I ruled. I could tell by the way he grit his teeth. Spitfire in his eyes. Nearly melted the ice of his blue-eyes.

"Your boyfriend," he said, words underlined with distaste, "owes money to the wrong kind of people."

Percy. He was talking about Percy. "What?"

"They'll kidnap you first, keep you as ransom, and kill you once their debt is paid in full."

"Why me?"

"What loving boyfriend wouldn't do everything for his lady?" There was some definite sarcasm in his voice. "Unless..."

"Unless what?" I spat out.

"Unless you two aren't as close as the press says you are."

My mouth fell open in shock, but I snapped it closed. I prayed he didn't notice. It was like his words grew a pair of hands and smacked me across the face with pure malice. It wasn't only for it's terrible implications, it was because he was right.

Percy and I were close, but not like most people thought. After four years of courting—meeting through mutual friends, clicking over drinks, and getting together after an unmemorable one-night-stand—I'd begun to think our relationship was solely for convenience.

His mother wanted him married, his father wanted him to stop getting splattered over gossip columns. I was that stopper for him. Instead of going to the pubs, he went to me. He helped me make me important, and I helped him stay out of trouble.

But we never were in love.

I just liked to think we were.

Now that this strange man in my room had stuck me in this situation, I began questioning everything. If my life was on the line, would Percy help me off of it? Or would he let me be ruined in order to save his own skin? I'm in a goddamn love-triangle with two terrible thoughts.

As I stood zoning out in the room, I didn't notice that the man had begun to rummage around in one of the drawers of my room. A small bag had already been placed inside, full of unknown contents. Clearly he'd been here far longer than I had been.

He pulled out two pictures, sliding them across the desk and towards me.

"Martha and Robert Ash," he said, waving his hand limply, "I assume you've—"

"I've heard of them," I cut him off.

The Ash Duo. I'd heard of their plights. Every now and then, they'd be all over the papers. Any sensible person in London had heard of them, because they made sure of it. Bank robberies, arson, any form of domestic terrorism that got them cash—that was their go-to.

The problem was, everyone knew it was them. They just couldn't be caught. A year back, they were arrested for suspicion, but there was no evidence that could incarcerate them. They walked free.

And now they were after me.

Me.

I'm going to die.

"So, you're...so," I stammered, my voice shaking slightly, "you're my personal bodyguard?"

The man was blunt. "No."

"Then what are you?"

"An Assassin," he said, hands clasped behind his back. "Of sorts."

"What sorts?"

"England calls me, I answer. I get rid of pesky criminals before they can do damage."

I tensed up. Assassin. I also held back a laugh. England calls me. He spoke like a failed poetry scholar, but I was finding myself starting to believe him. It explained quite a lot: the anger-issues, the scar, the eyes that spoke MURDER whenever he glanced at me.

"If you're an Assassin," I said hesitantly, "why are you here for me and not them?"

The man pursed his lips. "I failed to kill them."

"So, now you have to save me from them?"

"Precisely," he said thinly, pointing at the picture of The Ash Duo, "I screwed up my last mission, so now I have to face the consequences."

"Let me guess. I'm consequences?"

He ignored my sassy remark, swiping the photos back into his hand and tossing them into the drawer. He shut it with his foot. Leather shoes. Expensive. Perhaps being in the 'killing' business paid well—not that I'd bother going into it.

"This is why I'm adamant about boundaries," the man continued, turning back to face me. He was rigid with annoyance. "Do not touch me, and I will not touch you."

"Scared you'll kill me by accident?" I scoffed.

He didn't laugh. Clearly there was no reason to joke about a matter like that, which only meant that it could be true. Realization hit me like a speeding trolley—he'd most likely kill me by accident if I laid a finger on him. Habits of an Assassin.

"Well then..." I said awkwardly, "tell me more about these boundaries then."

The man was still bitter about my lack of cooperation, but still began to explain. I tried to listen. It was hard watching his lips move and not wonder why he was here in the first place.

"I've been instructed not to leave your side at any time," he said, eyes zeroed in on me, "even though I will be in at least 50 feet of your vicinity, do not acknowledge my presence if we are in public. Do not tell anyone you are in danger, and do not tell them I exist."

I understood most of it; Staying close by to keep me safe, keeping my mouth shut so as to not cause alarm and sabotage his methods of protection—but it seemed all too sudden. I'd only just arrived in Paris, and I was now to be followed around by some government assassin.

British accent, worked for England. Still didn't make me want to bow in his presence.

"Sorry, for clarification," I said, squinting my eyes, "you're not allowed to leave my side?"

"No, I am not."

"So when I shower—"

"That's an exception," he said quickly, clearing his throat.

He didn't seem embarrassed by my abrupt question, but a flicker in his steely eyes told me he had imagined something he did not want to see. Or did want to see, but was too professional to let his mind get the better of him.

I decided to be a prick and see if I could make his stone-cold mask break.

"So you'll share a bed with me then?" I smirked spitefully.

He didn't seem amused. "No. I'll take the couch."

"What if someone poisons my toothpaste?"

"What do you mean?"

"Does the government require you to share my toothbrush too?" I was taunted. "You know, just to make sure I don't die over the taste of mint and cyanide."

He clenched his teeth, the outline of his jawline sharpening as he stared me down. It was like he was forcing himself not to snap at me. If I was being honest, a part of me wanted him to. I can make you break, I thought smugly to myself, I don't need you to defend me.

When he didn't answer, I decided to play one more card.

"Can I at least know your name?" I said, flashing him a pearly smile.

He squinted his eyes. "You may call me William."

"William what?"

"My last name is not of any concern to anyone but the Government."

Secret agents; always so secretive. It lived up to the title, although it gave me a perfect clause to throw in my own tricks.

"I'll call you creep, then," I stated matter-of-factly, "William Creep."

His stance broke slightly, and his unreadable expression finally faltered into a look of ultimate distaste. By the twitch of his fingers, I wondered if he considered slapping his hand over my mouth to shut me up—but he wasn't allowed to touch me. Heh.

"Your humor is fascinating, Miss Lovey," William said sarcastically instead.

I shot back. "Just as good as your homicidal rage."

"Once again, that's my—"

"—Job," I finished for him, "I get it, Creep."

He narrowed his eyes again, and I wondered if he'd just shut his eyes entirely at this point. He clearly didn't like me. He didn't want to be guarding me either. Unfortunately, it seemed the both of us didn't have much of a choice.

"I suppose I'll have to tell you to make yourself comfortable," I frowned, "considering you already took a piss before I even got here."

He pursed his lips. "Excuse me?"

"I caught you coming out of the toilet when I walked in."

"I was washing blood off of my hands," he scoffed, "people tend to stare when your nails are dusted red."

"I doubt it. Maybe they'd think you painted them."

"I don't paint my nails."

"I think blood-red is your color. Maybe you should try magenta."

"You might think it's a joke, Miss Lovey," he said harshly, taking a step towards me. He nearly cast a shadow over me with the difference in height. "But it wasn't my blood that needed to be washed off."

I wasn't listening.

"I'm starting to believe less and less that you're an assassin," I rambled, rolling my eyes, "washing blood off your hands? I doubt a better line has been said since Hitchcock—"

I hadn't finished my sentence when William rushed in front of me, lurching his face inches from mine with absolute fury in his eyes. I'd done it. His mask fell, and he let his temper reign free.

I toppled backwards in fright, falling onto the mattress as I stared up at him. His hand was in the air, just spaces away from my throat, shaking at the possibility that he could have touched me. He didn't. I know he wanted to, but he managed to hold himself back.

Hell, I thought to myself. My heart was racing. I knew I was getting into dangerous business by needling him like that, but I didn't realize just how scary he could be. He looked like he was going to kill me. He probably wanted to. If he hadn't stopped himself, he might have.

His hair fell over his eyes as he glowered at me, breath ragged as he stared me down. A moment went by. I thought the Earth would snap. Then he drew back his hand, settling for words instead.

"You are intolerable, uncooperative, and a bloody pain to be around," he seethed under his breath, "I have no problem letting you die out there, but I'd rather not tarnish my reputation with the Higher-Ups for the second time."

I was terrified of him. Well, not of him entirely, but of what he could do.

"I know you were followed back at the station," he continued, his throat clenching around his words. He was pissed at me. Big man, short fuse. "I bet you think your follower disappeared when you went to talk to the Station Guard."

Huh?

I widened my eyes. "How did you—"

"Did you ever think it's because he got on the train? He was going to intercept you on your way here, but I was there to handle him before he could lay a finger on you."

I remembered wondering why Creep didn't leave like the rest of us did. He stayed behind, reading his book. While I brushed it off my mind like nothing, the truth was that he only stayed behind to find the man with the cigarette.

Blood on my hands. Realization dawned on me.

"You killed him," I whispered under my breath, "didn't you?"

Creep scoffed. "Don't pretend you care."

"But you killed him."

The man opened his mouth to shoot something back, but we were interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. It nearly split my soul in half with it's loud, metallic shrieking. I gave Creep a glare, before pacing towards the desk and wrenching the landline into my hand.

"Hello?" I said tensely.

It was the front desk. "Message for Madame [y/n] Lovey?"

"This is she."

"Percy Kent has just called," they spoke politely, "he would like me to inform you that he's made lunch reservation plans at Cafe La Belle at Noon.

"Oh. Thank you."

"Shall I arrange for a car?"

"No, I'll be alright," I exhaled, "goodbye."

I hung up the phone, my fingers still clenched around the metal spine. I could feel Creep's eyes on me. If dirty looks were telepathic, he was sending one straight to my brain at this very moment. I didn't blame him, but I didn't blame myself either. I may be stubborn, but he's no saint.

"Who was on the phone?" He asked.

I turned, seeing him still leaning against the wall. "None of your business."

"Tell me who it was."

"Twas the Queen of England," I joked, wiggling my fingers at him, "apparently I'm the heir to the throne."

"One, that's not logically possible. Two—"

"Maybe it's not, but I'm leaving."

Creep wasn't the kind of man to go sputtering when I cut him off; He only froze, falling silent with murder in his eyes. It scared me, though I wouldn't admit it. His piercing blue eyes made me feel like one of his targets, helpless, terrified, and nearly dead.

I imagined him washing my own blood off his hands.

I stopped imagining it, incredibly bothered by the thought.

He said it himself, he wasn't here to kill me. He wouldn't dare touch me. Perhaps it was some moral code of his agency, but regardless, I shouldn't go insane thinking about the terrible things his life consisted of.

As I made my way towards the door, I noticed him follow behind like a tall shadow. I stopped in my tracks.

"Right," I frowned, cursing him mentally, "you're to be with me at all times."

He didn't respond, so I rolled my eyes, leaving the room and shutting the door in his face. I didn't bother holding it open.