The question catches me off-guard with its directness. She's looking at me with those amber eyes that see everything, waiting for honesty I'm not sure I'm prepared to give.
Are you using her?
The answer should be simple. I brought her here to keep her alive. I'm working with her to clear both our names. Everythingbetween us is circumstantial, driven by necessity rather than choice.
But the way I watch her sleep suggests otherwise. The way I memorized her coffee preferences and bought clothes in her exact size and felt possessive pride when she chose effectiveness over protocol—none of that is about survival.
"No," I say finally. "I'm not using you."
"Then what is this? What are we doing?"
Crossing lines that should never be crossed. Falling for you when I should be entirely focused on keeping us alive.
"I don't know."
It's the most honest answer I can give, and probably the most dangerous.
Because whatever this is between us, it's not one-sided. I know it’s not. Because we both have found something worth fighting for that has nothing to do with justice or revenge or professional duty.
Because you want me the way I want you.
"That’s not a good answer. You chose this life. I had it forced on me."
Did I choose it?Or did circumstances beyond my control push me into shadows where choice became survival and morality became a luxury I couldn't afford?
"Choice is relative when the alternative is death."
"Is it? Or is that just what we tell ourselves to justify doing things we know are wrong?"
The question hits deeper than I expected. Because she's right. Because fifteen years of telling myself I kill to protect innocent people doesn't change the fact that I've taken twenty-seven lives. Because good intentions don't erase the blood on my hands.
Is that what she sees when she looks at me? A killer making excuses?
"You think I'm wrong," I say. "You think what I do is wrong."
"I think what you do is necessary in a world that's broken." She turns to face me, and the honesty in her expression makes my chest tight. "I think you've sacrificed your soul to protect people who will never know your name, even when that made you the loneliest man I've ever met."
Lonely.
The word cuts straight through me because it's so completely accurate. Fifteen years of isolation, of being feared and hunted and completely alone. Fifteen years of watching other peoplelive normal lives while I existed in the spaces between legal and illegal, moral and necessary.
Until you.
"Loneliness is the price of the work."
"It doesn't have to be."
The words hang between us like an invitation I'm not sure I understand. When she steps closer, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her amber eyes, my pulse starts racing like I'm facing combat instead of conversation.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying maybe you don't have to do this alone anymore. If you really are not just using me, then maybe we can build a real connection—one that’s not based on circumstances and necessity."
We.The word carries implications that make heat spiral through my chest. Partnership beyond professional necessity. Trust beyond circumstance. Something that looks dangerously like the beginning of a future I never thought I could have.
"Mariana---"
"I know what you are. I know what you've done. I know you're dangerous and probably insane and definitely the kind of man I should run from as fast as possible."
